writing is pure luxury

Writing is pure luxury, because you aren’t doing anything else but pulling words and ideas out of your mind, out of the ether, and plopping them on the page. No dishes or difficult conversations, no taxes or tangible results, just that pleasurable ordering of phrases that evoke some sort of felt impression.

At least that’s how writing is for me. Now, I’m at a coffee shop, chillin’, while the electrician explores our persistently flickering kitchen light and my half-drunk coffee cools on the bar.

When I imagine golfing—and I imagine it a lot, though I have played very little—the compelling part about it is the luxury of having time and no other commitments. Just strolling around, whacking a ball with a club, in a beautiful natural-ish manicured outdoor setting. Not cooped up in front of a computer or changing a diaper, just spending hours outside, with a goal and the hopes of hitting a few good shots, the kind that feel so satisfying that your body remembers them, the kind that keep you coming back for more.