Happiness in 87 Words

“It is raining hard. The stereo is playing. I am alone. All the windows are shut, five o’clock in the evening. The rain is thundering, coming down hard. The stereo is up loud. I’m completely happy. It feels too easy: like walking in a dream. Surely I am missing something. It cannot be this easy. Happiness is supposed to be sought after, complex, to be found only with the greatest amount of cunning. 

Water roars off the roof, and I am dry. 

Later tonight I will fix coffee.”

— Rick Bass, Oil Notes, 107

This is a complete section of the book. Call it a chapter, a story or call it what you will, this is the thing complete, and I like it. I like the feel of it and the structure. Look closely. Listen. 

The first sentence is four words: one syllable, one syllable, two syllables, one syllable. So simple and clear, I hear the rain more than the sentence. Then another four-word sentence, this time with stereo's three syllables in the middle. Now I hear the music, but it's my music because I've already noticed the third sentence: "I am alone." I'm that I.

Bass, knowing he has pushed this simple sentence far enough, messes with it now. 

The next sentence isn't a proper sentence. It's more poetic than prose, the phrase after the comma left dangling. He repeats that in the next sentence with the rain, but the appended phrase functions more properly. From there he goes back to a simple sentence about the music turned up loud. This is warm up for the biggest thought of the day. Listen: 

I am completely happy. 

He is filled with happiness to the top of his being. It's as if he is happiness itself. It is a revelation.

He says, it feels too easy. His happiness is so large, he turns to simile, to the impossibility of dreaming, something we all know. 

When he begins the next sentence with "surely" I smile and almost laugh. Had he said that he was missing something, I wouldn't have believed. Had he asked, I wouldn't have wanted an answer. "Surely" says that he knows beyond being sure, that he's missing nothing, that he feels this thing absolutely. 

The next line, the longest of the whole piece, states what is the common thinking about happiness, the supposed to be, and puts the lie to all that. 

Not done, he hands out a statement that may or may not be a metaphor. The rain roars but he is dry. 

He finishes out of the blue: Later tonight, I will fix coffee. 

I want that coffee. And later today, I will fix some just to keep feeling this happy and to be complete. 

What To Do (when there's nothing to write)

There will be times when it seems there's nothing to write. I've felt that way for a week. I want to write, but nothing seems interesting enough. My plan is to post every day and work on longer projects in between, but I feel like I have nothing to say. What to do? 

My first inclination is to run away from the page and keyboard or to lose myself online. If I have nothing good to say, there's no point in writing. I want to sink into my bad mood and wait for something good to happen, but I know good things take forever to come. It's not that the world is such a bad place, quite the contrary. I've just learned that waiting is a good way to keep things from happening. That pisses me off, but it's true. 

I want to write this morning but feel I have nothing to say. I've done my Morning Pages, had coffee, taken fiber, shaved, and done twenty push-ups. I could throw in some laundry, clean my desk, or sit and type. The laundry and desk will wait while I type to change my luck. 

The oldest writing advice I know is to sit in the chair and do the work. Maybe I can open that advice up beyond just the directive. 

The reason I feel like I've nothing to say is that I don't believe my thoughts are worthy. That's mostly because I haven't thought things through. The thinking is all in my head, vague and wispy. Coming to the keyboard or the piece of paper forces me to elevate the thinking, organizing my thoughts into sentences, making paragraphs that work together. It's a kind of performance too. I'm explaining myself to an audience. As I type the first draft the audience is my skepticism. I wonder, _am I making sense? have I said this before?_ If I've said it before, I've left things unclear enough that I need a refresher. I'm not the only one in need of that refresher. I keep going. 

My butt is in the chair, but the magic is what I'm doing on the screen. I'm looking at the previous paragraph, going back to my initial thoughts, checking this sentence for sense, and hearing the next sentence coming. I can feel that I'm not done, that I haven't yet explained myself and am only partially moved by the words written so far. I have more I need to say.  

That ought to feel discouraging, but it's just the opposite. I know there's more to say not just because I remain unconvinced but because I have sentences still rolling down the conveyor belt of my mind waiting to be typed. Having written some of my thinking, I've opened the valve. More ideas are coming through that tap. 

The other thing I feel is that even when this thinking is done and I've finished the draft, there are other thoughts taking shape that I want to get down in letters and punctuation. The feeling of being stuck and unworthy is dissolving. The solvent was putting words on this page. 

None of this comes as much of a surprise. The solution to feeling unable to write is to sit and write. Of course. However, in the moment of being stuck, writing seems too uncomfortable to even begin. I can't imagine that anything good will come of it and want to run. What to do? 

Sit your butt in the chair and decide how many words to put on the screen, how many pages to fill, how long to keep writing. My plan today was for 500 words. Yesterday I set out to fill five notebook pages. Many times I set a timer for twenty minutes. A plan for quantity doesn't always result in quality, but it gets me writing and loosens up that feeling that I am terrible and unworthy. It's enough to stop me from running and start writing.

Sit in the chair. Take up the pen or open the laptop. Write and keep going. Tell the page or screen what you're thinking and make those thoughts convincing and clear to yourself. The writing won't be perfect; it doesn't need to be. You just need to keep writing. 

That's what to do. 

Snow After Seventy

Wait, it was seventy degrees yesterday morning. I went for a run with friends and it was almost too warm. Then this afternoon, on the way to Wegmans, snow flurried thick enough I couldn't see beyond the 481 overpass. 

My guess is that most of Syracuse isn't thrilled with this. A day like yesterday gets us thinking spring has arrived despite the calendar and our better sense. I don't listen to weather reports in part because I don't want to hear how terrible a day it will be just because it's not like yesterday. 

Sudden shifts in weather give me hope. Yesterday it was seventy and skies were blue. Now it's below freezing and the world is white. That sudden change is a wonder of Central New York. The skies are grey and that can be tough, but there is something in a snow flurry or storm that delights me still. 

It has me thinking how lives can change like the weather. I've been in the same job for seventeen years and would love some new adventure. I had dinner last night with a former colleague and she looked ten years younger, as if retirement led her to find her true self. I felt happiness radiate off her just as sure as I feel the furnace pushing warm air through the vent at my feet. I was happy for her and wondering how I might sail on the winds of change. 

For years I believed I was trapped and would remain in my job because I had waited too long to make a change. Then the world turns from freezing to seventy and back again and I believe in the powers of change and my own power to make changes. 

I don't know tomorrow's weather or if I'll be in a new job soon, but I was happy in yesterday's warmth and I'm just as happy in this snow. Maybe some new adventure will come or I'll make one. It may snow or thaw. Being okay with all of it begins with enjoying how things are right this minute and expecting things to become only better. 

It was seventy degrees yesterday morning. It's below freezing this afternoon. Anything at all seems possible for tomorrow. That's just the way it ought to be. 

Austin Kleon, Steal Like An Artist

Rereading Austin Kleon's Steal Like An Artist wasn't as good as the first time. Since then, I've read his Show Your Work twice and followed his daily postings. I've been following his advice and creating. Steal Like An Artist wasn't as good this time because I've moved forward just as he has advised. 

My first reading was a series of revelations and ah-ha moments: Yeah, that's a good idea. I should do that. I thought a lot but didn't do much yet. I let it ferment. His ideas seemed right, but I wasn't ready to do the work. I needed time to read more of his work and create more of my own. I look back and see that reading Steal Like An Artist was a pivotal moment in my progress. 

The book is well worth the hour it takes to read. I changed habits because of it. The ideas in it connected with those of Wendell Berry and Anne Lamott, Donald Hall and Natalie Goldberg. These help me develop my own ideas about work, writing, and living well. The book doesn't demand readers be artists, but it left me sure I wanted to become one. 

Kleon is a teacher who helps me find my best and chase adventure. The book has me wanting to create. It leads right into his Show Your Work which has led to even better things for me. Go buy both books and start your own adventure. 

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