“If I could choose I would rather be happy than write…”

Jean Rhys

I’m a pretty happy guy. And I like to write. It makes me feel like….I’m doing something.

IF I could build something worth using I’d do that instead.

I’m not much good at anything. Except maybe selling worthless crap to pathetic rubes.

And that’s not nice.

I could’ve hung out with this woman. Jean Rhys. I read some of her Jane Eyre prequel. I couldn’t get into it. Maybe I’ll read her earlier books. He life is what interests me. She wasn’t good at much, either. She drifted around. Hung out in bars. Got cozy with some real characters. Writing didn’t appeal to her all that much…but she had a talent for it. I could’ve hung out with her. Hugged a bar with her. Early stuff she wrote reminds me of how I write. Maybe I’ll read all of it instead of sample bits like I do most literary books. Because I relate to her.

The thing is, when there’s nothing you’re particularly good at, you can always write a book. The hard part is willingness.

Simple as that. Willingness…

While all of the currents deposit marine plants and refuse into the sea, ocean water in the Sargasso Sea is distinctive for its deep blue color and exceptional clarity, with underwater visibility of up to 60 m (200 ft).^[5]

wikipedia

You want to write something that says something.

Life doesn’t make sense.

You want to try and make some sense…in your own fashion.

It seems we have a need to try and explain things. The Big Dogs come up with Big Theories. Evolution. Relativity. The Unconscious Mind.

The theory of The Unconscious Mind

That’s a good one. Try to absorb the fullness of it. You’ll be stunned. Left to stagger to a bar for Vodkas straight up and keep them coming. The Origin Of Species fills you with childlike wonder and disbelief. You know it’s impossible but you love it anyway. Like a Fairy Tale. Freud lets you know how much dirt clogs your rancid soul. He’s the General that brings the news that the war is lost. Until it dawns on you what a monumental fraud the theory is. And now you can’t stop laughing.

Sigmund Freud, a big dog with a bad ass theory

The Theory Of The Sargasso Sea

It doesn’t need to made sense.

I could write about the Sargasso Sea. Where the waters are calm. Where a lot of crap collects on the surface. Where eels gather in the muck.

But where beneath the clutter the water is crystal clear.

You don’t need to explain anything. Because nothing makes sense anyway. Write something that plays like a poem or a song. And makes you feel good.

But first I’ll talk a bit more.

Fill some blog posts with gibberish.

Like this fellow did with his Log book:

In July 1969, British businessman and amateur sailor Donald Crowhurst disappeared after his yacht became mired in the Sargasso Sea. He had been competing in the Sunday Times Golden Globe Race, a single-handed, round-the-worldyacht race when his poorly-prepared boat began to take on water. He abandoned his circumnavigation attempt, but reported false positions by radio in an attempt to give the impression that he was still participating. Eventually, Crowhurst wound up drifting in the Sargasso Sea, where he deteriorated psychologically, filling his logbooks with metaphysical speculation and delusional comments. His last entry was July 1, and his yacht was found unoccupied and drifting on July 10. It is unclear whether his death came as the result of suicide or misadventure.^[15][16]

wikipedia

Well, he didn’t do well out there on the Sargasso, did he?

He tried to achieve more than his limited skills allowed.

Let that be a lesson to him.

Talk about doing something small. How about this! Jimmy Buffett’s signature song “Margaritaville” is one of 25 songs to be added this year to the Library of Congress’ National Recording Registry.

That makes it historically significant!

Nice.