I loved this line the moment I saw it in a recent Lapham’s Quarterly, the one about “Sports & Games.” Since first reading it two months ago, I’ve thought of it often, in conversations ranging from light issues like taste in food to more serious talk about fidelity, love, the things that define what quality of person you are in relationships.

What excites me most about those two sentences is the way they swiftly get at something we don’t talk about enough: what it means to be an adult. It’s a problematic word, adult, because I don’t think it means simply adding years or responsibilities; there are plenty of people in their middle years with important jobs and families that I wouldn’t consider adults, but why? What’s missing?

One of my dearest friends in the world, a woman named Att who helped raise me during difficult times for my parents (much longer story there, but suffice it to say Att is the most curious person I’ve ever known, and one of my best friends even with an age differential of some fifty years), gave me her thoughts on the subject when I was last in St. Louis half a year ago. She said that people don’t live long enough to become adults, it’s just an accident that we grow old and die so quickly, without figuring anything out. Those aren’t her exact words, but what I took from her statement was that we should be willing to forgive people, no matter their age or station, because we’re all still learning and failing and fumbling on as children.

That simple idea — you never become an adult — is striking even if you disagree. Which I do. So back to the Ford quote and why the seemingly funny line (a joke!) is serious.

I tend to use a kind of general filter to answer the first part of Ford’s construction, namely, to answer what makes me happy and what makes me mad. But I’m starting to wish I didn’t have to wait for that filter to spring into action before deciding what would make me happiest in a given situation. I feel reactive in that way, reactive to my own happiness. The most common negative result is that I spend a good deal of time on something that makes me mad, while not realizing earlier how to act on it and move on.

Which brings us to the active part: “…and what to do about each.” That part that drives me crazy. How often do I face a situation that makes me mad, and I have no idea what to do about it, or, even worse, that I have an idea of what to do but no resolve or means to act.

I guess that’s where I’ll end this rant for now. Let’s call this part of an ongoing probe in how to better pursue those things that make me truly happy and avoid the trap of what I should do, but which makes me, well, mad.

I love my neighborhood on days like this, when I can just walk downstairs and grab a breakfast sandwich from Moxie and a perfect americano from the Fresh Pot.

Week two was terrible. I didn’t respect the schedule nearly enough, allowed other things to get in the way, and didn’t do half as much work as I’d promised myself.

With Monday already under my belt this week, things are already looking off track. Spent this morning sleeping late because of an over-active weekend (two soccer games plus one reporting in the press box, a four-mile walk home from U of Portland on Sat night, lots of family time).

Assessment: I need more work and more diligence in terms of refusing plans. Remember what is most important.

The draw toward an increased level of order and progress in my own life was punctuated today by an article I just read about the life of Ingmar Bergman, Swedish filmmaker, whose late-life peculiarities of sex and family and daily operations constituted the main interest points of a photo essay in a recent (not recent as it turns out…only seemed that way since we no longer subscribe and that one’s stayed around for a while) issue of W magazine (supplied, I should say, by Sage. I’m not too current with my W if she’s not around). A simple idea stuck out: for a man with a chaotic inner existence, imposed structure is essential. In fact, I could see the rigors of structured living going beyond essential into the realm of addiction (not lost in the article is a sense of Bergman being increasingly difficult to reach, personally and professionally, due to his adherence to a self-centered timeline and a set of deep convictions about what is and is not good use of hours).

Also, I do not mean to flatter myself by saying my inner life is comparable to that of Mr Bergman. Whereas his notes and revisions are the stuff of museum halls, mine are an embarrassment I wouldn’t want displayed to anyone, least of all a public audience. I hope some day to create works whose construction would prove interesting to someone other than myself, that future is far from guaranteed.

But I do recognize that a lack of structure coupled with a swell of good intentions is the perfect equation for letting one’s self off the hook. It’s easy for me to say I’m working, or that I’m thinking, or that the real time to sit down and get to work on the book is just around the corner. But without a schedule, I don’t have a sense of time and opportunities being gobbled up by my past — a sense that I think is important to maintain. The truth is, every morning I’m not writing is a morning lost, a morning set back, a morning from the future that I’m borrowing against despite the fact that the future isn’t promised to me. First thing first: write one book. Then another. I certainly can’t write my third novel while I’m still waiting to get downstairs and finish the first.

So, for posterity, here’s my three-days-a-week plan, plus a little something (less structured) for the weekend. I’ll report back on the success of this project in two weeks.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday

7:01am Wake up
7:01am – 7:15am Coffee
7:15am – 9:15am Writing
9:15am – 9:20am Breakfast
9:20am – 9:35am Commute (bike)
9:35am – 10:00am Workout and shower
10:00am – 6:30pm Work
6:30pm – 7:00pm Commute home, unwind
7:00pm – 8:00pm Read, relax
8:00pm – 9:00pm Dinner
9:00pm – 11:00pm Read, movie, etc.
11:00pm Sleep

Weekend

Six hours total of writing time, divided as events dictate

But I don’t mean to go off course. The fact is, today’s positive press from numerous local publications makes me feel pretty good, and at first I was a little embarrassed about that, as if the only news that should really turn me on has to deal with the novel or publishing a story. But fuck it. I’m happy for the positive feedback no matter its form.

And yet I still can’t bring myself to take a break and do something else for a while, like write a new short story or edit some old work or write something for a performance (reading, monologue, etc.). I know it’d be good practice, plus the writers I most admire seem to work on several projects simultaneously. So what’s keeping me back?

My first answer: a misconception that for every minute I spend on a writing-but-not-novel-writing project, I would otherwise be working on the novel itself. There’s something sacred about the hours I get to spend writing or thinking about or drafting or erasing large chunks of the book, so the idea of somehow stealing from those hours for a project I’m less enamored of seems wasted, or rather like stealing from myself.

But I know that’s not entirely true. The whole reason to break out is because I often spend those available hours staring into space or cleaning something or reading someone else’s book or wasting time on the internet (putting the internet at the end there is misleading, because, honestly, that’s the most likely time sink of the bunch).

Sage just asked me whether I’d like to collaborate with her on a project, and immediately I had that knee-jerk reaction: NO! I cannot pull myself away from the book, which, no lie, I still firmly believe in and think will be worth all of the effort. But then she broke up my thinking by suggesting I do something other than write, like sketch. I love to sketch, pen drawings. I’ve always loved drawing. Look at my journals from way back. They’re chock full of figurines, psychedelic dreamscapes, naked women, signatures, still lifes, monsters, eyeballs, faces, haircuts, lists, lizards.

I’ve stopped making promises on these pages, but I will say Sage is onto something. Forget this lie of a limited creative balance. As with the proverbial distance that a stronger fondness makes, I’ll find myself yearning to get back to the novel when I’m doing my best sketching, and in the process jump straight into something good. Real good.

I’m part of a loose affiliation of sports fans and technology geeks and writers of various daytime occupations who contribute to the Portland Sportsman, a local online concern. The purpose of the Sportsman, insofar as I like to view my participation, is to observe sports not for their outcomes but for the interesting stories that grow up around and within those sports themselves, and for that purpose minor league sports have turned out to be more interesting than their major league counterparts. For example, we write about what in the world could possess a Triple-A baseball player to continue the fight into his late twenties/early thirties, especially when it’s a prospect’s game down there. These guys (amazing athletes though they may be) pull town a measly wage, travel by bus, share rooms, and play in front of depressingly sparse crowds. But I digress; you can read about that in a few articles over there.

Anyhow, it’s writing with deadlines, which I love; it’s writing for something I care about; and it means more words on the (digital) page, which helps no matter what the subject. Go ahead and check out some of the writers over there if you’re interested in minor league soccer, baseball, rollerderby, pinball, and so on.

Nothing fun about moving all this code from one host to another, but with thanks to Sam Alexander I’m fully migrated.