Sticky Notes - I'm sorry.

I flew into New York this past Monday on a big jet plane that housed just six souls and as my flight approached the city, I looked out my window to see an ocean of black, teeming with yellow and orange lights.

If it were not the dead of winter and I weren’t floating above the most densely populated city in North America, I’d have thought some deity had stopped time in the middle of an Indiana Summer night with all its lightning bugs ablaze like lanterns-in-miniature.

Once we had finally touched down, my eyes were red and they stung to keep open and it took all of me to keep my forehead from falling over the top of them as I found myself off the plane and through the airport, past the crepes stand, past the Brookstone, past the other Brookstone, past the kiosk selling vibrantly colored packaged snacks and drinks all competing with one another, eventually finding myself at a conveyor belt that carried out a big, charcoal-colored hulking piece of luggage that had seen better days. 

I make good money but I can't bring myself to spend any of this good money on a new piece of luggage. You spend $500 on a rectangular box to carry your things from one state to the other and the moment you let go of it, brand new, it's returned to you so badly vandalized that you can't help but wonder if there isn't some angry asshole working baggage, beating the ever-loving shit out of everyone's stuff with a Louisville Slugger.  

After I retrieved my bag, I looked up to see an eighty-year-old man of about five foot two inches tall motioning me to come hither. 

I followed him to a jet-black Jaguar outside the airport sending chimney plumes into the frozen night. 

The Jaguar carried me to a hotel called the Conrad, about a stone’s throw from the World Trade Center, where I climbed to the 87th floor the following day, hired to do what I’m doing now: write. 

While I wouldn’t call myself a great writer, I would consider myself a good one; good enough to tell you how to distinguish a good writer from a bad writer. 

You figure out how well someone can write by asking them to describe a ham sandwich. If after they have described it, it reads as appetizing as a meal prepared at the hands of Francis Mallmann, you're in business.

You could also achieve this vetting by asking someone to describe a business trip to New York City, which I have just done.

There are writers who write… 

“I flew to New York this past Monday, on business.”

And then there are writers who write…

“I flew into New York this past Monday on a big jet plane that housed just six souls and as my flight approached the city, I looked out my window to see an ocean of black, teeming with yellow and orange lights…”

Hell, perhaps what separates the great writers from the good writers is knowing when it’s appropriate to reach for the shorter description over the longer and vice-versa. 

That's a beautiful word: vice-versa.

I’ve always found the word "vice-versa" to be interesting because it means that, regardless of a specific order, the outcome’s value of said order still remains the same.

While this, upon first glance, might not strike you as particularly noteworthy, think for a moment how rare this is in life, that an outcome can be miraculous despite the order of which it is achieved. 

To enjoy sex and a big steak dinner, you must enjoy them in this specific order.

If you think otherwise, go out and have a big steak dinner with your significant other, along with enough red wine to fuel a Catholic church and perhaps a dessert or two and see if the two of you find yourselves wanting to get frenetic afterward. 

No, to enjoy sex and a big steak dinner you must have the sex first, then you must rinse yourselves off and pretty yourselves up and escape to Frank in the East Village where they serve up a skirt steak so wildly delicious you’d trade it out for the best ribeye you've ever known seven days out of every week.

(There isn't a chance in hell anyone reading this has ever been to Frank so if you do find yourself there, be sure to arrive late so you don't have to wait and bring cash because they don't play nicely with card...)

If it’s just sex you’re after, that’s fine. And, if it’s just a good steak dinner you’re after, that’s fine too. But, if you’re wanting a night of sex and a big steak dinner, they must take place in this order. There isn't an alternative. 

In fact, perhaps this is a splendid rule worth remembering (be it in regards to sex or one of life's chores): you’re probably not going to do it after supper. I repurposed that wisdom from something I read from Ephron, once upon a time. 

On the topic of sex and steak dinners, my girl joined me in New York City after my work had concluded and we spent the weekend together at a hotel I won't divulge here because 1). it does perfectly fine without any sort of advertising from myself and 2). I selfishly don't want to see the place get any busier. 

I felt quite lucky to enjoy her company because she’s in a wildly busy time in her own career with a North America tour right around the corner.

This Wednesday, actually.

When we parted ways earlier this afternoon, we got on two separate flights.

Her’s carried her to Minneapolis and mine to Nashville.

There’s nothing sadder than getting on a separate flight from someone you love at the airport. It’s impossible to do so without that awful thought lingering in the back of your mind that someone's airship might run short on fuel.

Journeying away from your partner every now and again is good in this way: it makes room for perspective.

And, my God, I have so much more to say but my flight has just landed here in Nashville, Tennessee so I'm afraid I have to cut this short. 

I told myself I'd conclude the writing of this newsletter after dinner but, well, we know how that goes.

Yours,

Cole Schafer.

I sent out an edition of Chasing Hemingway earlier that was hotter than a candlelit dinner... in hell.

No. I can't share it with you here. Not because I don't want to. But, rules are rules and the rules are that Sticky Notes is forever free and Chasing Hemingway is forever paid. 

But, I will give you a little peek.

Close the door. 

"

I once date a woman in college who I knew was the second coming of satan but she had a pair of legs that could bend a steel beam into a bow and a pair of breasts that could cause a traffic jam and a sweet-talking tongue that could get an army of snakes slithering at her command and being that I was twenty-one-years-old and that like most men at this age, I thought with my cock, I listened to my cock rather than my intuition and I paid the price. So many of us know it is fire before we walk into it, but we walk into it anyway despite this knowing.

"

If you subscribe now, I'll send it to you. If you don't, tough luck.

Bullshit aside, if you hate paid newsletters as much as you hate a squirrel turning to jerky at the hands of your neighborhood transformer (and your power), I sell other products, too. 

* Snow Cones... will help you not write shit. 

* $100k... will help you make more dough. 

* Don Draper... will help you get more responses. 

* One Minute, Please?... will make you feel something. 

* After Her... will make you cry.

* Chasing Hemingway... will... already covered that. 

"While a bit cryptic, it appears that Schafer is challenging the reader to act on their ambitions despite their crippling hesitation, arguing that they very likely were ready to act yesterday, which means that they are very likely ready to act today."

As I mentioned in my previous newsletter, this year I'm loading for bear and going after one big, hairy audacious beast each month with the thinking that by the end of the year, I will have twelve badass projects I can point to.

January's beast was 31 spoken word poems accompanied by black and white illustrated GIFs. So far I have 14 down and another 17 to go. I'll have to double up poems a few days in the weeks that follow but I'm staying fairly consistent with production.

As of right now, here are my takeaways: 

1. The process of speaking whatI'm writing is making me a better writer because it's allowing my ears to pick up on words and sentences that feel clunky or awkward. 

2. Despite what everyone says, it's really fucking hard to grow an audience on TikTok –– social media "thought-leaders" like to praise TikTok for being a place where you can blow up but, so far, I disagree. 

3. Forget #2, I think you should create for the sake of creating and, as a side-effect, the act of creating will become the gift. 

P.P.P.S. Once again, if something I ever write resonates with you, please share it via the icons down below and encourage others to subscribe here.