There's no such thing as bad weather

An update on my first winter in the Midwest.

Winter Landscape by Wassily Kandinsky (1909, Source: Wikiart)

No. 110: There’s no such thing as bad weather

My predictions about my first winter in the Midwest were wrong. 

Which is a plus, actually.

It’s one of those journalist-type things where, with a story to write, the writer proceeds with a preconceived notion and finds themselves confused slash forlorn slash amused when the reality is different.

Crucially, though, they’re not at a loss. 

Just the opposite. They’re full of things to say. Every journalist knows shattered expectations make the best stories. They force the writer to question everything a.k.a learn, which checks out as I find myself in that deliciously rare place between expectation and reality, somewhere that can only be reached by venturing further than you’ve gone before — otherwise, there’d be nothing to expect.

This time, my expectation was that of the snowed-in writer achieving peak production during the winter months. A crackling fire may have factored in. And a hearty stew bubbling on a stovetop. There may have even been a crystal snifter half-filled with brandy at his side from which he sipped occasionally to lube the mind.

This is not (exactly) the case. 

I’m writing, yes. There are stews, sure. And fireplaces. And warmth. And coziness. There is beer instead of brandy. And lots — and lots and lots and lots — of fresh, white snow.

But there’s also my compulsion to run around outside like a rabid gazelle. 

Too bad, then, that it’s six degrees as I write. The ground is covered in snow. Occasionally, a strong wind blows through the yard, whipping up a snownado, a word I’ve just created not out of glibness but necessity. Our house sometimes feels like a submarine or a spaceship. Outside the conditions are those you’d find at the bottom of the ocean or the dark side of the moon. That is, deadly. All of which means no gazelle-ish activities for me. 

And this is where the whole journalist thing comes in. Didn’t I already know this would be the case? Apparently not under the influence of those flowery expectations. I know now, though, that rather than settling in with a good book or spending full snow days cranking away at my in-progress story, I’m dedicating big chunks of each day to increasing my heart rate. I make sure to ride my trainer at least an hour a day. I go to the gym to force fatigue. Last week, I ordered all the stuff to create a basement gym, a buy-once-cry-once Christmas gift to myself.

As it turns out, winter has had no particular effect on my writing, good or bad, contrary to my expectations. If anything, it’s mostly made me level up my tactics for combating a sedentary existence, something winter seems be designed for.

I understand that, at this point, you may be thinking, Um, dude, has it ever occurred to you that, maybe, you just don’t like to write as much as you say you do?

Yes, dude, it has. 

But I think that’s a patently false insinuation that comes directly from my, and your, ego. 

Fact is, our egos don’t want us to write. Writing is reflection, and reflection is hardly the ego’s friend. When we write, we stop thinking so much about ourselves, who we are, what we’ve achieved, where we are going, and what we need to do to get richer, more beautiful, and more powerful. Instead, we let pure, unfiltered consciousness flow onto the page, sometimes even forgetting who we are as we float down the river of thought.

For this same reason, I like to exercise. 

I find exhausting myself — within reason — to be another method of forcing ego death. Sure, at the outset, there are probably egocentric influences at play i.e. to look better, to get fit, to be stronger and faster than the competition.

But at the end of a workout? When you’re lying on the floor in a pool of your own sweat? While you gasp for air and look to the heavens with a thousand-yard stare?

Everything is nothing then. You’ve pushed yourself to the limit and have nothing left to give. All tension, overthinking, and anxiety has been wrung from your body like a damp shammy (chamois for the more elegant among us). And in that there’s a kind of bliss, one that’s not unlike what I feel when fully engaged in a work of writing. 

It’s taken me a long time to realize that my longing for physical activity is about more than just fitness or writing avoidance. It actively benefits not only my writing, but everything I do. It levels me out. Offers some mental clarity. As far as I can tell, the mind and body are inexorably linked — with soul factoring in there, somehow — and if one is languishing, chances are the other is too.

So, no. My winter has not been what I expected it to be. I’m writing, but I already knew I’d write — I just thought I’d write more. Instead, winter so far has been lots of coffee drinking, many hours of exercising, and repeated wondering at the perfect helplessness I feel each time I step outside take a negative degree wind to the face.

This has been the worst winter of my life, and also the best. ♦

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Weekly Three

HEAR: “Shanghai” by King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard

READ: Chuck Palahniuk on writing under the influence of music. Thanks for sending this over

Wil Dalton

. Also, thank you to

Jeannie Wagner🧚🏼

for kindly mentioning me in her latest post. Check out her stuff!

VIEW: Snowball fights in art (1400 - 1946)