Hi friends. If you’re new here, this is The 200 Word Novel, where true to its name, I’ll be writing a novel roughly 200 words at a time. Today, I find myself writing more than 200 non-novel words, reflecting a bit as I’m on the road for the next two weeks.
It’s hard to be bored these days.
Whenever a glimmer of dullness or loneliness or unprompted introspection starts to creep in, there’s the siren call of that supercomputer in our pockets, in our hands, then in our face, always there for us to grab and wake up and prod for those little injections of dopamine and distraction and (on good days) digital connection.
To be fair, in many ways and many occasions, that supercomputer can be a delightful and deeply useful thing.
But sometimes, it’s nice to run out of the endless scroll. To resist the allure of instant satisfaction, the placating numbness of soothing white noise content. To confront the unease and discomfort of creeping existential dread, to gaze into the lonely abyss, to look eye to eye with doubt and insecurity and just plain boredom, to have nothing to do but imagine and introspect and daydream—and to know you can emerge on the other side, having conquered (or at least survived) another disquieting brush with the sheer mundanity of nothingness.
Sometimes, if you’re lucky, a little dose of insomnia helps nudge such experiences along.
Little known secret: if you don’t go to bed for long enough, you get to pretend you’re a morning person.
I’m in Austin, visiting friends and chatting with folks I admire who run a fantastic improv theatre out here, the Hideout. I’m pestering them to learn more about the business of running an improv business, and how they do what they do. They’ve been incredibly kind in also inviting me to play in many of the shows and watch the shows I’m not in.
Friends in Seattle have teased me that I do more improv outside of the city than at home. And honestly, I’m guilty as charged—but planning to change that in the near future. (Soon™, as the cool kids say.)
Performing improv is a funny thing: the adrenaline and joy of a show, the crackling energy of the audience, the delight of playing with new and old friends, all contrasts with the quietness that follows after.
But there is something delightful in the wistful contrast, a joy in experiencing the peaks and valleys of connection then solitude.
And when you’re pretending to be a morning person, sometimes you get to take a quiet walk just as the sun is coming up to get to a charming local coffee shop where you find yourself enjoying a bit of time to write for the simple pleasure of extracting thoughts from mind to page.
One of the joys of having traveled quite a bit is learning how to plan for small comforts. Investing in nice headphones that let you block out plane noise but also hit the passthrough button to hear birdsong as you walk and explore. Discovering that packing a pillow (an admittedly indulgent use of space in the carry-on) helps bring a bit of home comfort to anywhere you go. Packing light and smart on clothes to carve space for the devices that let you write on the move. Tucking a small backpack in your travel backpack so you can explore new places with a lighter daily carry once you’ve dropped your things where you’re staying. Remembering to pack your passport, and having a secure place to keep it that isn’t the outer pocket of your backpack. (Hard lessons won and learned.)
I don’t really have a good ending to this particular post (newsletter? Article? Email?). The sun is up, I’m fully caffeinated, and the bittersweet ennui of the hazy fog between waking and asleep has faded, with no clear lessons nor epiphanies.
Instead, it’s just another day, filled with highs and lows and the painful, joyful, mundanity of living. 💙
That’s all for this week today. I’m gonna stew in the discomfort of boredom until I break and resume bookmarking too many recipe reels to later inflict my cooking experiments on my poor partner.