Using tools, systems, prioritizing, intellectual equivalents of rolling pins, whisks and immersion blender, I’m just startin’ to really cook.
Accomplish more, focus more, fewer – less mediocrity, more superb-itude with erudition, magic plans, secret sauces or, more important to process paperwork piles, wade through miles of my-man-made muck – consider options, make decisions, hundreds of them.
Making one choice at a time, one deliberate choice.
One. Then another. One after another. Moments of excitement followed by hours of calm, comfort and joy – and an occasional atta-boy, that’s what I want.
Just write. Just start.
Like Hemingway? Forster?
Quixotic, or like Joyce, Sabatini or Poe?
I’ll be just like me, just start – just let go, just see.
Best motivation novelist gets, I’ve read, is to wake full of energy but anxiously and sadly, alone and hungry. Without solutions, facing many problems, jaws gnashed into life’s meat. Less steel trap. More wrinkled persistent bull-doggedly, characters don’t know where to go, don’t know when to quit. So readers say – it must be a true story, because you can’t make this stuff up.
Well rested – waking up, shaking up, revolution near.
If not by noon, then sometime soon.
That’s what I want.
Wait . . .
Not so fast.
Heard those words. In our heads. Toddler trying to keep up – or was it me, just last week, trying to keep pace with life, or trying one more draft of something to achieve illusions of perfection?
Sidelines less, I crave adventure and intrigue in far off places.
Or down some street.
Time to go …
In my head.
column written/ published from Calgary
morning walk: -12C / 11F, light overcast, steady breeze, Gusta wanted a quick walk – I obliged because it is still very slippery but now I think she just wanted to get back quickly to eat her breakfast! Moral of the story – hungry dogs want shorter walks!