New year's resolutions

I've never been much of one for New Year's resolutions, suggesting as they do the triumph of hope over experience; as if merely turning a page on a calendar can make a difference.

But with advancing age also comes a growing desire to make every year left count, as well as perhaps a better awareness of what makes for personal happiness and fulfillment. The likes and dislikes harden, in large part because of a dawning realization that we've put up with many more petty irritants and idiocies for far longer than we should have.

As such, a few resolutions for the coming year, each of which should be fairly easy to keep (the key to it all):

• Spend less time in front of a computer or cellphone screen.

I've come to suspect that the amount of daily screen time for people is inversely related to their mental health (an observation which makes me shudder at the psychological problems likely to beset young people who, according to some studies, average eight or nine hours of it per day).

Constantly surfing the internet almost certainly leads to more neuroses, anxiety and overall dysfunctionality because the world presented therein is so much more deranged and nasty than the real one. The real people we interact with on a daily basis are friendly and seem to be in a good mood; the people on the internet are creepy and seem angry at everything (astonishingly stupid too).

In short, much of the vitriol and extreme polarization and incivility these days can probably be attributed to too many people exposing themselves to other people's warped views, fake indignation and silly grievances while staring too long at a computer screen. We end up with a far more dismal view of life and of the human condition than need be.

So why spend so much time doing something that makes us depressed and dumb?

• Read better books.

Most of what I read is history or biography or social "science" stuff, but looking back it seems that lots of the fiction in recent years has consisted of formulaic detective stories or "novels of psychological suspense," or mysteries with some kind of curve which we weren't supposed to see coming, but usually do.

Such genre fiction usually features "damaged" cops (or former cops, depending upon the degree of the damage) or "unreliable" narrators (usually women with psychological problems who drink too much or pop too many pills), with obligatory cryptic prologues that refer to something shady in the distant past and which you usually forget within the first 30 or so pages (thereby rendering them pointless).

"Gone Girl" and "The Girl on the Train" were entertaining, but their progeny is ruining an entire genre.

Even worse has been the misleadingly labeled "literary fiction" that I've tried to wade through, invariably written by graduates of college MFA programs and featuring "evocative" (meaning pretentious) prose, dialogue that resembles nothing spoken in real life, dull characters (usually neurotic, superficial late 20- or early 30-somethings living in New York and working at art galleries or publishing houses) and narrative structures so implausible or lacking in pace as to make Ken Follett or Frederick Forsyth look away in embarrassment.

So back to the basics for this year, to Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, and James M. Cain for the crime stuff; to finally getting around to classics that have been stuck on the must-read list for too long ("Finnegans Wake," "The Adventures of Augie March"); perhaps rereading books that impressed me when I was young to see how they read now ("Confederacy of Dunces," "Catch-22," "A Clockwork Orange").

I'll probably even take a fifth shot at finishing Anthony Powell's "A Dance to the Music of Time" -- I get a bit further along the 12 installments every time, then set it aside for something else, only to have to start over at the beginning again a few years later.

It might also help in this regard if I spend a couple days organizing our overstuffed bookshelves so I can actually find the books I know are in there somewhere.

• Spend more time at the beach: Nothing makes cares go away more quickly in my case than white-powder sand between the toes, pelicans soaring overhead, and fresh oysters on the half-shell staring at you from your plate.

The phrase "beach time" has real meaning when the coat and tie get traded in for a swimsuit and flip-flops and days run by a dictatorial clock are replaced by an appointment with the sun as it settles over the water, preferably while holding a cold drink with a little umbrella in it.

If everyone seems indignant and hysterical on the internet, everyone seems relaxed and happy at the beach. Better still, when you're experiencing the equivalent of a Corona beach commercial, it's hard to take Donald Trump, Nancy Pelosi and the rest of the circus seriously.

• Finally, swear off the martinis, cigars, and red meat, because I keep getting told by our busybody health police that they are bad for me ...

Just kidding. Actually, maybe just find a good reasonably priced single malt scotch (if there is such a thing)?

Freelance columnist Bradley R. Gitz, who lives and teaches in Batesville, received his Ph.D. in political science from the University of Illinois.

Editorial on 12/31/2018

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