On not writing
I get a call. I rush to see who it is.
It’s an unknown number. I cut the call. And block it.
I’ve got a few messages, I notice. I decide I’ll look at them later and open them.
I lost thirty minutes. Why does this happen even when my notifications are off?!
I’m not hungry and it’s lunch time. I better go eat.
I ate too much. I need a nap.
I didn’t have to nap for two hours. I did nothing to deserve that.
I wasted all day yesterday trying to come up with a grand idea. I got nothing done. That incomplete thing got bigger and became more incomplete than before. There’s no way I can finish that now. Let me try one last time.
Nope, I can’t.
I should pull up my writing software and start typing. Something. Anything. I am writing in a rush. I'm writing an article in under ten minutes. It reads terrible. I’m late to publish. Again.
“Haha you’re losing your mojo I see… as always!”
Oh freak. No. You don’t get to turn up now, after hiding like a coward, all day yesterday.
“Well, I was wondering how you sustained these many days even.”
You are a scavenger and you crawl out of your lair when there’s nothing good left.
“Maybe. But your detractors are laughing at you!”
No. I don’t suffer from the same delusions of grandeur as you. I’m not important enough to have detractors. You certainly have a detractor in me.
“Hahaha. You are a terrible writer. Look at you bend over backwards to use ‘delusions of grandeur’. And then repeat 'detractor' in consecutive sentences. Disgusting!”
Oh fuck right back off to your colonial cave, for Queen's sake!
I continue typing.
Why is distraction so addictive?
I love Charlie Kauffman.