Sit And Write For Fifteen Minutes.
Write every day, even if it’s just for 15 minutes. So at 1:58 I started to write. I was in a slump since I came back from Toronto and had written a lot, just not a lot of good stuff. I’m struggling with my life these days. I’m bored, and I don’t know what to do. I’m sure I have an enviable life; I can just pick up at 11:45 and go to lunch with my husband if I want, or I can sit on my balcony with the fall sun beating on my neck or I can lay in bed all day and not move an inch. It’s a horrible place to be in, and I found myself with a little level making sure all the pictures in my apartment were completely level.
134 words in 3 minutes and it’s all complete nonsense, I don’t understand the point of just sitting here and writing even if it’s crap, and it’s just for 15 minutes unless it accomplishes something, produces something, produces next weeks post for instance. Instead, I’m just sitting here watching the Pabst Blue Ribbon beer truck unload beer to the restaurant below me and wondering whether or not I could be a beer delivery person. I couldn’t, of course, because I don’t have a CDL license. It’s a gigantic truck in a city with a lot of restaurants and a lot of cars that I’m sure I would end up hitting. Then I’d wind up getting fired, so instead I’ll sit here and watch him unload the beer, forcing myself to write for 15 minutes.
It’s hot out here on the deck, and I think I’ll end up getting sunburn on my neck. Maybe I’ll move my chair, oh wait the whole deck is drenched with the sun. I should move back inside to the couch, the couch that has my body molded into it from my days on end just sitting in it, watching tv or reading, or even in the good ole’ days writing. Writing about things with substance, writing about my fears, my hopes my dreams, my failures. My fears of being the mom to two grown children.
363 words in 9 minutes. NINE MINUTES 6 more minutes seems like an eternity, where will I ever find the words to fill up those 6 minutes. I can’t stop and move out of the sun because that will take away from my 15 minutes, and I’m pretty sure that’s the goal of this exercise, not to stop, so I sit here with my neck scorching, putting random pointless words on a page. I’m sure it won’t turn into a post, but maybe it will, I’ll call it The 15-minute Ramblings of Gina’s Mind. It’s really what I’m thinking when I’m just sitting there, staring at you or staring into space. I’m wondering what’s next, what am I going to do with my life. Or sometimes nothing is going on in my head, nothing at all. Other times there stuff in there that is just better left in there.
Whenever I think about my future, I inevitably turn to CraigsList. To find a job, to find a dresser, to find a pet, to find something to fill this hole that is gaping inside of me. Surprisingly I haven’t turned to CraigsList just yet, because as much as I wonder what I’m going to do next, I’m not sure I want a traditional job. I like doing what I want to do when I want to do it. I don’t want to have to wake up from the shrill of an alarm clock; I don’t want to have to fight my way through traffic to get to a job that I have to make new friends and I more than anything hate being the new person. So for now I’ll just sit here and ramble and be grateful that I don’t have to find a job, and I can just plop myself down on my balcony and make myself write whatever comes to my mind to my fingers to my keyboard whether it makes sense or not.
697 words and 15 minutes later this is what happens when you force yourself just to sit and write for 15 minutes.
This sounds just like the inner monologue that runs through my head when I force myself to write. I think when you’re stuck for an idea there are times when forcing yourself to write is a good thing, like a stretch to remind your muscle “Hey! You can still do work!”. Other times I think it discourages the writer, especially if they are in a particularly self-critical mood. There’s obviously no right or wrong answer but know you’re not alone in frustrations.