Undernourished

When life is boring, in a good way

Writing is a simple process. The more good that goes in, the better things turn out.

It’s a tool as well as an art form. Before I can write, I need something to say. An imperative to send a message.

Legal writing is the same. A well-crafted sentence can’t mask faulty logic. If anything, the reader becomes more infuriated having to untangle the words only to discover the rot beneath.

A year ago, I was in the middle of The Artist’s Way. Through daily personal practices, I cultivated the energy that found its way here.

This year, I’m recovering. An emotional tailspin over the winter led to self-abandonment. After months of floundering, I found my way back. I remember my dreams again.

The other morning it hit me. My real life is boring, I thought.

I mean that in a good way. My one unique life is made up of simple moments. Raising the window shade to allow Laurie to survey the yard. Preparing my first cup of coffee, then another. Sweeping the floor and sitting down to write.

The actions I take solely for me are simple. Boring. Profoundly mundane.

I’m sure there are many philosophical concepts that explain why this “simple life” is best, or universal, or what not. What I now know is, I should be wary when I find myself away from boredom for too long.

It’s exciting to get swept up in someone else’s universe. It feels like a literal escape from tedious existence. It’s exciting and good to, at times, allow ourselves to feel that version of alive.

All I know is that this life is the true one. Whatever happens in the craze of infatuation or capital D drama is something else.

This is where I must return each time. Luckily, I want to. The feelings of safety and stability outweigh the rest.

There will always be opportunities to get our kicks. It’s an eternal process: jumping ship and swimming back again. I’d like to think it’s part of my storytelling, too. Venturing into the emotional wilds, learning hard truths, and bringing them home to process and share.

But it’s hard to write while floundering. The stuff that emerges might not be fit to read. I’m asking myself, and perhaps you, what that means. Should I take more breaks between newsletters to better ensure what goes out is sent while grounded? Alternatively, do you like trying to decipher how it looks in my head when I’m not?

Part of being in the wilds is spreading myself thin. I haven’t been shooting film, and the photos I’ve taken since September reveal, to me, my lack of focus. Luckily, I’m getting introduced to artists up here who are generous with their work. In particular, I’m excited about Analog Alaska as a place to discover film photographers throughout the state.

I’ll leave you with a photo by Jovell, whose art I’ve featured several times already. And I’ll also leave you with a tease that I’ve finally, finally began working on the novel again. My consciousness feels split between that world and my own. It’s a blissful, at times frustrating, and beautiful place. An escape that feels right, for me.

Jovell Rennie, June 2021. Anchorage looks a lot like this these days.