The caffeination is coming in hard and strong after I licked the residual grains from the bottom of my Americano. I’ve been busy lately and have not had much time to write. Even now, as I write, I’m fighting through the aftereffects of uselessness. Writing (like most things in life except video games and television and the Doolies) works best as a habit. Once I break the habit, it’s difficult to get started again. This is true in almost all pleasurable but challenging aspects of my life: gym, park jogging, morning exercises, moleskining.

Earlier in the day, as I was washing my hands and exchanging a “how’s it doing?” with a coworker, I yanked out my 30/100 stock answer, “super great and getting better, you?” As I responded without thinking, I began wondering how my brain molded and stored these stock responses. I imagined a large mostly empty warehouse, which smelled of dust motes and wood chips, with piles of boxes with fading labels scattered about. Most piles consisted of only one or two boxes, but a few, such as the “how’s it doing?” stack, had many more.

I added my SGGBY (pronounced “Scooby” like the dog) box when I was working in D.C. at my first job out of college. I’ve relayed this stock story before (it wouldn’t be stock if I only said it once), but here it is again: since I never had a real job growing up, when I entered the work world, I fell into a depression. As most non-medical depressions are, mine was my own fault: partly I didn’t work hard to find a good job (i.e., I didn’t work hard during the job hunt, I actually worked relatively (for me) hard at school), but mostly I couldn’t wrap my brain around what it meant to work. Here’s an excerpt from a letter I wrote during that time:

I think it's becoming more than sad lately. I sit around and just think about what life can possibly hold for me, and I come up very empty. Don't worry, I'm not contemplating suicide (it's extremely awkward to slice off one's own head.) But, [sic] I do sense that something is missing within me. The problem of course is in finding what that grander purpose which [sic] I'm missing is. And the fact that I haven't had a deep philosophical discussion in a number of weeks is becoming quite a drag as well. Sigh. (Letter to Chuck, 11/13/1995.)

At my first real job, we sat in cubicles with low walls. Dawn sat across from me. Because of my mild depression, I was a bit of a sourpuss (I know, it’s hard to believe), especially in the mornings. Dawn was an optimistic morning person, and she grew sick of hearing me complain. She suggested I answer “super great” to her queries each morning (she at first tried to explain that I should treat the “how’s it doing?” question like a greeting and not actually answer it, but realized quickly that I would never be able to understand that social subtlety), and over time I added the “and getting better.” It became a morning ritual, which I have found is a good way to add boxes to the stock-answers warehouse.

I didn’t know it at the time, but there was another advantage to the SGGBY response. The SGGBY response (I do like that acronym) became part of my Smile Therapy. I first heard about Smile Therapy on “Ally McBeal,” the idea being that if you pretend you’re happy and positive, you may end up tricking yourself into being happy and positive. One of the lawyers on the show—the talented one with severe phobias and social issues—learned the Smile Therapy from his therapist, practicing smiling in the bathroom each afternoon. While it didn’t seem to do much for him (or me), I still keep hoping, and that box gets plenty of use, especially during my more merry moods.

Getting back to the bathroom, I provided my SGGBY response and dried my hands and walked out. My coworker was a step behind and called out before I turned down the hall.

“What you writing in that Moleskine?” He pointed at the book peeking out of the back pocket of my jeans.

I went through my stock story about being an aspiring writer and needing a place to keep notes that was both trendy and practical, etc. He surprised me by explaining that he wrote poetry, having taught English and writing for many years after receiving his MFA (Master’s of Fine Arts). He eventually fell into technology and started a family, and while he still read, he didn’t write much anymore. Besides a lack of time, he found it difficult to transition his brain from technology work to creative work.

This is where I normally take everything I wrote and tie it together in a pithy conclusion. The funny thing about relying on easily conveyable stock answers and stories is that it becomes difficult to reach beyond and say something original. That’s where I find myself, with nothing coming to me, although I know there should be an easy way to tie together the themes. It’s sad to think that usually my strength is the conclusion.