A cherrywood desk, resembling a large block, sturdy enough to hold the weight of a library. On it is my rendition of a library. Or part of it. Here you’ll find books on writing, like Stephan King’s and how you should eat to live by Joel Fuhrman.
Inside the desk, buried underneath scattered sheets of paper, empty bottles of cortisone lotion, and a box of floss, is my phone. I had to get rid of it, it was eating away at my time.
If I want to write about freeing yourself from distractions, I should free myself from distractions.
“I’ve got to give it all my focus if I want the highest chances of success”Kevin Hart
That quote made me think about my projects, the written pieces that I’ve published, and how much time and energy I put in them. Some more than others. The truth is, this has been on mind for a while now, and so I believe I put in more effort– I know I can do better.
I think that same can be said for you too. Focus is a difficult son of a bitch. And I think we would all appreciate it if he wasn’t such an asshole. Unfortunately, life isn’t easy, because you know how the saying goes: “Life’s a bitch and then you die”.
So I toss the damn thing away. I lock the desk with steel chains from end to end. Then I tie some dynamite on it and push it out my window.
BOOM — next.
Now comes the hard part: sitting down to write. Rarely do I venture past this part. But when I do, I need to sit in agony, writing whatever comes to mind (nonsense mostly), for a few minutes before I can become even remotely focused. Then the real writing begins.
This and That Way
I sit here with empty intentions, ready to sway in any direction the wind goes. Unprepared for its waves, as I always am. Hours are spent writing gibberish, none of it makes sense. Then I realize that it never does. Occasionally, I allow my fingers to mindlessly dance on the keyboard, spewing whatever fragmented thoughts occur to me at that moment.
In these moments, I never feel good about what is being written, but still, I continue.
This is because I’ve come to understand that there is not much else I rather do than to write. And it’s only healthy to dream that this will one day be my main source of income, but as of today, it isn’t my main intention. And sure, distractions arise, they come from everywhere, every conceivable place, even in my head. But ultimately, the final results, good and bad, are mine to bear.
It Is What It Is
“A man cannot be comfortable without his own approval.”Mark Twain
Still, from time to time, I feel myself floating from emotion to emotion, like a crashing wave, slamming into another wave, and another, in violent transitions, while I remain its victim.
So, what’s the point of any of this?
When I first began, the intentions were to build a writing portfolio, to share my growing skill as a writer, and to attract online businesses searching for blog posts and similar content. Though in a way, it mostly remains the same, I feel that I’ve branched out quite dramatically in terms of content being written. First, I began with self-help advice. This then quickly evolved into something else along the lines of stories with self-help packaged somewhere in the narrative.
As of today, I do not know where I will go next. I have no plan, no road map, only an idea, and a digital watch on my wrist to remind me how much time I have left, and how much time I’ve spent.
For now, I suppose that’s enough. Then again, maybe not.