On my fourth day of freshman orientation, feeling lonely, depraved and anxious, I began keeping a journal. I chronicled my experience as a college freshman, dazzled and confused with this new place. When Hurricane Sandy hit, and campus lost power for a week, my whole world entered a dream-like stasis.

Classes stopped. Suddenly without any homework, the specter of writing hung around me, asking I take this time to produce more work, to bleed onto a page, to do anything to continue feeling I had a reason to go on. And then – amidst the sulking – the following happened, as recounted in my journal. My friends and I sneaked onto the uncompleted Quad during the height of the storm. For maximum effect, play the song as you read this excerpt:

Finally, we made it to the center of the quad . . . for the first time I noticed not just how savage Sandy was, but how beautiful she was. There was something intensely harmonic about the movement, about the destruction. . . . Sandy was like a raging symphony – like Beethoven’s fifth, undeniably energetic yet thoroughly planned, capturing so elegantly the spark of spontaneity to make it all look effortless – of course this note would come next, of course the wind would blow this direction now.

When I landed (metaphorically) from my experience, I looked over and saw Nikki jumping up and down, pointing at a wind-snake of leaves. I reverted to cringing: “Nikki, it’s dangerous!”

                         To which she replied:

                        “Luke, it’s poetry!”

Writing need not be agony. It need not be pain. It doesn’t have to exist on a page or in your mind, it does not need to be forced, it does not need to be slaved over, it does not need to be anything more than a split second.

Writing is just being.