29 nov 2017
As a surprise to no one, least of all to myself, the excitement that would mark the self-imposed 4-week endurance test is beginning to wear off. This is scary for me because, as I’d mentioned a few times on this blog, I am a professional quitter, having in the past dropped all things, good and bad, that I had ever started. So it’s not like I don’t know the signs or don’t recognise the laziness behind the priorities that may be slowly sliding back to square one. For example, I binge-watched a series on Netflix again (Atypical) and now I’m sh-tting myself because once I slide into the Netflix black hole I can stay sucked in it until I start to believe in an alternative reality - so says my history of television abuse. I’ve always struggled with distractions, now it feels like war.
So, for the past week I’ve been forcing myself to stay away from the TV and audiobooks, which are as big of a contributor to the problem, and to put the laptop on my, well, lap, which is when I seem to snap out of the potential future rut and start typing. Behind every sentence though is epidural-free labour (and I wish you could tell by the actual quality of said sentences), and recently I’ve been unsatisfied with this labour – the words don’t sound intelligent, the arguments seem incoherent, the insights come across as too broad. I keep telling myself that, according to them successful blokes, whoever they are, and the multiple theories none of which I’ve actually read but learned about from unquestionable sources (LOVE FB!), you’ve got to finesse your craft every single day so that eventually your results will get good (I've just used "finesse my craft" in my own blog - English as a second language at its best). So that I can get good. Easier said than done, see first paragraph.
The dream, of course, is to bam, bam, bam a thousand words in half an hour and for all of them, every single one, to be loaded with meaning and beauty and unparalleled awareness and wokeness. Right now, straight-up, this seems unachievable, which is either another reason to quit or another reason to keep going. I have just spent 10 minutes staring at the screen for the sake of it – I am aware of where the scale is tipping.
I have promised, however, that after passing the 4-week test I would begin telling people I exist in a URL form. I guess the time has cometh? Tell whom? Tell how? I have been on my own arse, supported, encouraged and, thankfully, nagged by my friend and sole reader Jorge to think of the few words, an outline, with which to describe my daily ramblings. How eloquently genius is this blurb by The Guyliner ("Dating, LGBT stuff and the terrifying awkwardness of being alive in the 21st century") and can I use his instead? I think I might have multiple personalities or some sh-t because the scoop of my interests, although not dangerously wide, is all over the place – it’s pop-culture, it’s social issues, it’s parenthood, film, art, writing and, of course, regret. No f-cking way can this fit into a concise container of blurbs. Sofia came home the other day with a little pot of slime (don’t ask) which, when you hide it inside your palm and squeeze it, finds its way out in greasy bubbles overflowing through the cracks between your fingers. That’s my blurb. Unless I make it about the subjects I will not be reporting on: wellness, shopping, dating, algebra. I have walked through life making choices based on what I don’t care for, hoping that way options will self-eliminate and I’d just freely pick what’s left. I have since learned that is not the best approach to life and, apparently, to writing blurbs. You must know exactly what you want (to say).
I sure know how to whine in 500 words about how challenged my motivation and how unstable my productivity are. Maybe what I could use is someone to creepily lean over my shoulder and whisper in a hair-raising voice “And yet you are still here, child – typing, editing, deleting, retyping, not stopping” and because I wouldn’t be scared at all of an invisible alien intruder breathing down my neck I would feel a warm comforting rush of realisation that I have, not without struggling but so what, written every day for the past month, so far without compromising any time I have to spend with Sofia or what needs to be done around the house – like a proper mountain of ironing.