minutiae

Paul Keating’s lacerating wit and egomaniacal sense of his own unerring rightness remain intact. I have the book of his post-prime-ministerial essays and speeches. He is my favourite politician and prime minister, the only Australian prime minister driven by the bigger picture. History will rate him a giant among pygmies.

I admire him for splashing vivid colours on a huge canvas, in contrast my own square focus on life’s grey minutiae. At work I spend hours freeing up time for whatever big job is at hand by doing all the little jobs. I never get to the main game because small things, like fluff on a dark suit, go on forever.

The small things are often the routine things—tidy the desk, answer the emails, straighten the pencils, dust the monitor, make another cuppa. Meanwhile, that major report waits, and that big project lies dormant, then waits or lies some more. Dealing in detail is the stuff of procrastinators and perfectionists.

Daphne, the Publication Coach, sends me a weekly newsletter. She has two mantras—mind map before writing, and don’t edit as you write. I know she’s right, but I’d rather edit than write—writing is big picture stuff, the main game; editing is the details, the particulars, the intricacies. I feast on jots and tittles, on niceties.

Just as the saying goes—save the pennies and the pounds look after themselves—I expect that if I attend to the small things, each separate individuated piece of the puzzle, the big picture will fall into place. The big picture is an illusion, my attention to detail a delusion.

Do I have any Keating in me, or just admire him because his strength is my weakness? My politics and philosophy are big picture. I brought up my kids based on the big picture drawn for me by Atticus Finch. As a school principal I was a man of vision and let my deputy fiddle the nuts and bolts.

In my head I see the big picture, while my hands move in ever-decreasing circles.

Rock on.