If I’ve learned anything from this newsletter, it’s that the only time I stopped making progress is when I stopped writing.
I took a 3-month ‘break’ from Pen Sunday late last year, and now, whenever I look at my view count or subscriber graph from Substack, those 3 months is the only time in almost two years that I had 0 views and 0 new subscribers. Numbers aren’t everything, but the theme is clear.
I’ve been in a strange place with my writing for the last month. Not burnt out, but not grinding either. Just writing in perpetuity. Disassociated and disinterested in the scripts I’ve been writing, because I’ve been working on them for so long over the years that part of me wishes I could throw them away, erase them from my mind, and start fresh from a blank page. But that’s not how it works. You can’t rewind, and you can’t recreate the past.
One of my favorite speeches about creativity and ‘writing in perpetuity’ is by Louis CK, speaking at a memorial service for George Carlin. In the speech, Louis tells the story of how he spent years struggling as a comedian, doing the same shitty jokes every night and fearing that not only would he not make it, but that he wasn’t getting any better. His ‘career’ was stuck.
After one of Louis’ shows, he’s in the car when he hears Carlin on the radio being interviewed. Carlin, who at this point is well known for releasing a brand new special every year, is asked about how he does this. Carlin's answer was simple, and it was a touchstone moment for Louis early in his career, way before Louis CK was ever Louis CK.
Carlin said that he was always working on that year’s special, and once the year was over, he would toss out everything he was working on, and begin again completely fresh in January. And each special was deeper and more fresh than the last. This terrified Louis. He worked for 15 years on his ‘shitty jokes.’ How could he just throw them all away and start over?
Louis goes on:
“…I thought okay. When you’re done telling jokes about airplanes and dogs, and you throw those away, what do you have left? You can only dig deeper. [So] you start talking about your feelings and who you are. And then you do those jokes and they’re gone. You gotta dig deeper. Then you start thinking about your fears and your nightmares. And doing jokes about that, and then they’re gone.”
And then you have to go deeper. What do you really, truly, want to say? What do you need to say?
Writing in deep water is the term I have for this. After I finish the 3 scripts I’ve been writing and rewriting for what seems like years, and I throw those away, what do I have left? What’s next?
Here’s a link to the speech.
In continuation of the last editions themes of summer, coming of age, and young adulthood in my Central America travels during 2021, I decided to republish another one of my posts from that time.
This post, “Along the Nicaraguan Countryside” is one I wrote after arriving at my hostel at nightfall in Granada, Nicaragua. At that point in time, I’d already been in Nicaragua for one week, and I really began to feel the weight of travel catching up to me for the first time.
Witnessing a level of poverty rivaled to only what I witnessed in Morocco, led me to really start to question why I was on the road. What was the purpose? What was I really looking for?
Here is Along the Nicaraguan Countryside.
Originally published on June 6, 2021.
23 years old in this photo. Taken by a friend of mine I’d met at the hostel we were staying at. San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua.
“ALONG THE NICARAGUAN COUNTRYSIDE”
JUNE 6, 2021.
A feature of travel that’s not oft-told by travel blogs or admitted by any travelers you meet at a hostel, regardless of country, is the inequality you first bear witness to, and then secondly are left to ‘deal with’ (for lack of a better term) after you’re exposed to it. -- It’s the reality of travel that exists beyond filtered Instagram pictures, digital food reviews of not-so-hidden holes in the wall, and the two-minute-long go pro videos that come accompanied by techno music; it’s the ‘real’ that comes after, behind, inside, surrounding, or hidden behind all of the noise. It’s the paradox of making a real connection with someone you might never see again, it’s the exhaustion that comes with coming and going to new places and the always needing to figure out how to get something done, who to talk to, where to go, etc, but most importantly, the ‘otherside’ of travel is the staring at the economic inequality of the world straight in its face.
This is what happened as I bussed along the Nicaraguan countryside after a weekend spent partying, hiking, and connecting. The memories have been made, the place experienced, the language spoken, food ate, drinks drank, money spent, and then, like always, it becomes time to go again. And this time, it was by way of bus.
The bus is an old classic yellow American one that’s been repainted white and red, its destinations painted in blue, green, and yellow along the side. There are no other indicators of where it goes, nor are the schedules posted, or the websites (if they even exist) accurate, so the only choice is to climb on with semi-confidence that it’s the one you need and find a window seat towards the back because that’s where the best seat is.
It’s hot, though not as hot as it’s going to be in a few hours, and the few people already on the bus have opened all the windows (and doors) in response, and fan themselves to keep cool. A short while later, after a few more people have climbed on (including the bus driver), the engine starts, the bus departs, and a half minute later a man, who I’ll come to know as the ‘Ticketer’, who’d been seated in the front of the bus (who wasn’t recognizable as an employee), shouts out the window at another man with a briefcase to —
Corre! Corre! Saliendo a Rivas temprano!
Run! We’re leaving to Rivas early!
Briefcase makes it to the opened doors and gets helped on, and as soon as he does, we’re barreling out of the beach town I’d called home for a weekend, and into the Nicaraguan countryside.
*****
The bus served as a chamber of reflection as we drove past homes that would be best described as shacks if you missed the clotheslines hanging in the backyards. Next to them were a myriad of other abandoned brick and concrete structures that dotted the road as we drove on, how abandoned, however, was impossible to really know. We drove past animals, malnourished dogs who scavenged through bags of trash that were strewn in unkept fields, chickens who pecked at the base of trees, a few skinny horses tied to post in the shade, and even had to wait as the biggest hog I’ve ever seen crossed the road.
We drove past people too, men and women that were selling goods on the street, (all of whom looked far older than my grandparents), who seemed like they’d been there their entire existence, and saying that we were one of the few vehicles on the road, they couldn’t have been making much money. Ten dollars or less a day, if I was forced to guess.
And I promise these people are the farthest thing from “lazy”. In fact, it’s my own belief that if one was able to find the hardest working person in the world, chances are that person would be poor.
It continued like this for most of the ride until I saw something genuinely surprising, wind turbines — at least fifty of them, all in a line. I didn’t expect to see them. And in an odd, paradoxical way, it almost made them a little more impressive/incredible, the way they rose up, all facing the distant mountains, volcanoes, and lakes, begging questions and offering solutions for a future, contrasted with a current present that was in the very least, challenging.
*****
As the turbines fell out of view behind us, the bus pulled to a stop on the side of the road for a man in his thirties, surrounded by four small wooden chairs. His family, abuelo and abuela included, watch from the shaded patio of their tin-roof home as the man and the Ticketer whip through a series of dialogue, followed by the Ticketer climbing onto the roof, and the man throwing the chairs up to him to be tied down. Once they finished, the man waved goodbye to his family and boarded the bus behind the Ticketer, who was now walking down the aisle to collect people’s bus fare.
I watched as everyone hands him the USD equivalent to a dollar, and get anxious as I realize all I have is a USD twenty. (Which is an accepted currency, but I should’ve brought smaller bills) He arrives at my seat, and when I hand him the twenty, he looks at it like his favorite basketball team just lost on a buzzer-beater. I try to explain that I was told the total would be $15 because I’m going to Granda, but he cuts me off by turning his back to me and taking the fare from the riders in the opposite row.
I don’t blame him, and I go back to staring out the window.
*****
Soon after, signs of civilization begin to appear. We pass a baseball field, a mechanic shop, a restaurant, and an increasing amount of men waiting on the side of the road waiting to give a bicycle/’tuk-tuk’ taxi ride until we turn a side street that heads straight into the heart of a market, that reminds me of a scaled down version of the forever-winding souks of Marrakech, Morocco. A type of market that pulses with life and looks/feels like anything can be sold, and a place that if you hung around long enough, anything could be bought.
Cellphones, chargers, shoes, chicken, baby food, fruits, vegetables, spices, tools, tires, motorcycles, bicycles, hats, shirts, stereos, headphones, and so so much more. It’s as if instead of warehouses, Amazon sold all their goods/products through this Nicaraguan market. It’s its own ecosystem, a place where elderly men/women work the stalls, some on their feet, actively selling and promoting, others who opt to sit towards the back and fan themselves to keep cool from the beating sun. Children are not exempt from work either, however, there are some who chase balloons, or dogs or kick a soccer ball around with their group of friends, but others who do the same as their parents/grandparents — walking around with plastic bags of food, toys, and various other objects, trying to make a dollar, or seated in their own seat at a stall/souk, objectively looking bored out of their minds.
It’s a stark reminder of the economic inequality in the world.
The ticketer took my attention away from the ecosystem outside my window and handed me my change without a word. I thanked him and a few moments later, the bus came to a stop in what was effectively a bus station in the center of the market. I must’ve looked like I needed help as I got off the bus because the Ticketer got my attention from a short distance away and asked-
Granada si?
Si —
He points to a red bus across the street. “Dos y media.”
Gracias, I said, and made my way through the crowd to the bus, where sure enough, my destination was spray-painted on the side. It was another forty minutes until the bus left, but I wasn’t going to take the chance if the driver decided to leave early, nor did I feel like getting lost in the market, so I took another seat towards the back with a window and waited.
*****
The second bus ride was comparable to the first, and so you arrive at the hostel, hungover from contentment really, and you’re offered a welcome drink that you accept, and you set your stuff down in the room and briefly talk to a couple from France. And the thin line of hostels being both one of the greatest genuine cultural exchange locations and nothing more than a place to party, blur even more.
Tonight, the questions of where you’re from, why you’re here, and a brief discussion of the differences between your country and country x feel so plastic and mundane compared to the realities of the countryside. Tonight, you want to skip it all without the stigma of being seen as anti-social, or alienating yourself from everyone for tomorrow, the next day, or maybe the day after that when you feel like engaging with people again. And so you settle into a nook by yourself, one with a view and a breeze, and watch from afar as the sounds and sights of the nightlife in the new city come alive without you.
***********END
When I got to the hostel that night, I listened to “Idas and Vueltas” on repeat (a song I shared last edition)
And later on, when the main crowd had gone to bed, I overheard a song from a group of card players at a table that stood out to me so much that I forced myself to go over to them and socialize, just so I could ask the name of it.
That song, “Baby” by DakhaBrakha, landed itself onto a few of my travel playlists and has been synonymous with Nicaragua in my brain every time I hear it. Which is a blessing if you’re like me, and your favorite emotion is nostalgia.
Lastly, the third episode of Uncredited was released this week. I sat down with the wonderfully creative and inspiring Fanny Pierre, to talk about her upbringing in Belgium, work as a background actor, her comedy series Holding, and how/why she was proposed to after 4 days (and said yes!).
Listen to Uncredited wherever you listen to podcasts or watch on youtube.
Uncredited is weekly podcast with writers, actors, and creatives making a name for themselves in the entertainment industry.
Until Sunday,
Solomon Lovejoy
SUNDAY QUESTION
Inspiring piece. Also, Interesting hearing about your stay. I need to pick up some of your writing skills!👏🏽