(no subject)
The internet is currently out. I suspect that it’s another case of power cycling the modem. I also suspect that it’s a good thing for my overall productivity.
I’ve decided today is “Write Something Worth Posting Day.” What that means exactly I don’t know or haven’t decided. I’m writing this on abiword, and will most likely post it to Livejournal at my earliest convienence. That having been said, I’m not sure that it should count as my something worth posting. Writing about writing when you have nothing else to write about seems a lot like cheating, not to mention self-indulgent, recursive, and just plain boring.
It’s been one month since I started adderall. In that month, I actually finished reading a book, got the house reasonably clean, kept the house reasonable clean, wrote two pages of an essay about meeting my wife, wrote six pages of a one-act play about a junior Congressman’s office during a government shut down, cataloged a few of my ideas that I’ll probably never do but are still fun to think about, wrote down a list of things to write about from personal political and otherwise cultural viewpoints, thought seriously about writing some of them, wrote about half page about why I’m not Joss Whedon, checked livejournal, felt guilty about not posting, and watched up to season 3 of Star Trek: The Next Generation. The last one just sort of happened. That has less to do with being creative, and more to do with the fact that my wife and I watch a lot of Netflix.
I had this idea in my head that my productivity would go way up when the drugs kicked. Looking at that giant run-on sentence, it has but not quite in the way I wanted. Organizing the house has been partially a way of organizing my mind. I know it sounds a bit hippy but there really is a correlation between defining your surrounding space and defining self. Maybe in this case, I mean re-defining self.
Self reflection is boring. There is only so much introspection I can stand.
So here’s the fatal flaw. I dabble. I fool around with things until get bored after which I have a passing familiarity with the subject at hand but really attaining any level of depth or completion.
Why? Lots of reasons. There is a sense of pointlessness of writing something that I keep telling myself no one will read. There’s the fear that whatever I do produce will suck. There’s the basic truth that if I never really tried, I never really failed.
This is where the spiral of self doubt is countered by the inevitable pep talk. I’m just talking to myself at this point. That’s what this journal is, maybe what it’s always been. Maybe you the reader is just along for the ride.
The armchair is safe and comfortable. Ideas are useless unless they’re shared.
The internet came back on about an hour ago by the way.
I’ve decided today is “Write Something Worth Posting Day.” What that means exactly I don’t know or haven’t decided. I’m writing this on abiword, and will most likely post it to Livejournal at my earliest convienence. That having been said, I’m not sure that it should count as my something worth posting. Writing about writing when you have nothing else to write about seems a lot like cheating, not to mention self-indulgent, recursive, and just plain boring.
It’s been one month since I started adderall. In that month, I actually finished reading a book, got the house reasonably clean, kept the house reasonable clean, wrote two pages of an essay about meeting my wife, wrote six pages of a one-act play about a junior Congressman’s office during a government shut down, cataloged a few of my ideas that I’ll probably never do but are still fun to think about, wrote down a list of things to write about from personal political and otherwise cultural viewpoints, thought seriously about writing some of them, wrote about half page about why I’m not Joss Whedon, checked livejournal, felt guilty about not posting, and watched up to season 3 of Star Trek: The Next Generation. The last one just sort of happened. That has less to do with being creative, and more to do with the fact that my wife and I watch a lot of Netflix.
I had this idea in my head that my productivity would go way up when the drugs kicked. Looking at that giant run-on sentence, it has but not quite in the way I wanted. Organizing the house has been partially a way of organizing my mind. I know it sounds a bit hippy but there really is a correlation between defining your surrounding space and defining self. Maybe in this case, I mean re-defining self.
Self reflection is boring. There is only so much introspection I can stand.
So here’s the fatal flaw. I dabble. I fool around with things until get bored after which I have a passing familiarity with the subject at hand but really attaining any level of depth or completion.
Why? Lots of reasons. There is a sense of pointlessness of writing something that I keep telling myself no one will read. There’s the fear that whatever I do produce will suck. There’s the basic truth that if I never really tried, I never really failed.
This is where the spiral of self doubt is countered by the inevitable pep talk. I’m just talking to myself at this point. That’s what this journal is, maybe what it’s always been. Maybe you the reader is just along for the ride.
The armchair is safe and comfortable. Ideas are useless unless they’re shared.
The internet came back on about an hour ago by the way.