Tag: happiness

And feeling more encouraged than I did yesterday.  Certainly more awake.  No leads meeting this morning, and the cold absolutely helped in raising the writer.  Lots of admin tasks to do for the day, and calls, emails.  May go hit the coLAB, or not.  Like I just posted in a note, not going to think about it.  Not going to plan. This lately has been quite the toxic impediment to me. Just write, I posted just a couple seconds ago.  Thinking is needed for productivity, and not.  More not than actually needed.  Just trust self, and the words you’re putting to page.

This semester, I plan to  talk extensively about productivity, and the act of finishing something.  How when you think, you throw yourself into a cyclical stalemate.  Not writing as fast as I used to, and that’s from thinking, from meditating.  Was suggested by someone in my life, someone I love more than most, that I set down the pen, that I don’t type for a while, take a break.  That’s not the answer.  The solution is in the act, the movement itself, the Road, the act of not thinking or deliberating but production.  Just putting words to the page as quick as you’re able and self-endowed and care not a bit if it makes sense.

Walking to the front door of this building, lighter with no backpack just my latte and phone, I see this AE story and identity as a means of getting to IT.  I’ve felt and written that before, but not like today… not like the 10^th day of 2020.  This new year still with its hold and love of me, for me, about and around me.  Again I was called a “speaker” the other day, some even said “motivational” or “inspirational”.  Humbled, but I can’t tell you how much I thoroughly detest those words.  And, ‘speaker’.  I’m a writer.  And essayist, diarist, poet.  Or that’s how I want to be seen.  Then I need to do that more.  And reach 3000 words.  If you want something, singularize it, to one word (Essayist, Poet, Winemaker, Cop, Pilot, etc.), and write 3000 words a day till you’re there.  And you WILL absolutely get there.

Step and another step, toward the door I saw the building differently, the trucks in the parking lot, the people just as I walked in.  This business and how it started just from an idea.  Yes there was thinking involved, but more movement and trusting self than any organized brainstorming or constraint of containment in composition.  When in the classroom with students, I often talk down on structure or excess organization.  I embolden those enrolled to trust self, to write and do for YOU rather than appease the curriculum coffin.  I ask that they tell their story, and see it as an act of kindness.  That they need to share their experiences, they’ll help and connect with someone.  Don’t think about the structure of the narration…. Just tell your story.  Start writing, put words on the page… forget the sense that it’ll make.  Forget to forget, even…. Just expect letters, sentences, movement.

Writing this on the work laptop to start the day as I usually do, and notice there’s 81,000+ words in this document.  What did I write?  What did I see?  I guess I could go back and read, but not now.  Want to further impassion in the day, see what happens.  With the calls, with the emails, with the follow-up communications….  Promised myself that this year I’d become one of the top AE’s in the company.  The only way to make that happen is through movement.  Through writing letters and emails, calling, getting out into the street and meeting people.  Some would say “expanding your network” but I see it more as a collective conversation.  Whatever it is, will contribute more to it today.  Want 2-3 appointments by day’s end.  That’s my aim.  And, keep writing.  Told this to myself even before I started by trot toward the front door.

Movement, movement… no more bloody thinking.  And thinking is bloody, it’s potentially lethal.  It kills the action and trek, the Road you want to see if you have yourself mummified in thinking excessively.  Now that I’m at the desk, starting the day, just sending my day’s plan to Director, I’m feeling that pull… that pull and push to page.  Tech company with a writer in its walls, hearing the office come alive… more activity, more life, some celebrating the fact it’s Friday but that hasn’t even registered with me.  Too focused on the essay of the day.  This… me here now.  Realizing that the thinking has to be extinguished, utterly undone.  And it is.  Personal Legend, I think to myself.  The Coelho Effect, I call it.  As an essayist, or newly-anointed one, I don’t want to continue certain habits or thought-throws.  So, I just stop.  Cold turkey. Like a smoker, or drinker, or someone that’s some style of eater.  Like someone starting some new workout habit and lifestyle.

Last night finishing the final glass of that Educated Guess Cab the past jobs spoke to me.  All of them. Each one of their duty intricacies and “supervisors”.  All of them… the grocery store, the record store, insurance office and all the wineries… teaching.  Now here.  I can’t do another job.  I won’t.  I’m home, here.  Walking to the building from car I don’t feel what I did at other places. It just doesn’t happen.  I’m eager to not only “be productive” but see where the day takes me.  Even cold-calling antagonizes me, if you can believe that.  I can barely understand it, but it’s the Now. Where I am in this office, not thinking and not letting self dwell on what I can or can’t do, where my abilities are versus aren’t.  I only permit movement, a forward.  When you deliberate and not even to excess you stress the self and impede the sought productivity.  Walk to your day’s building and principle edifice with encouragement, your own loving shoves, and knowledge of new knowledge and the everything of every answer.

1/10/20

Just posted a piece, or “article” I guess you could call it to Medium and I hate it.  Can barely look at it.  When I read over it, I didn’t like or dislike it. I just felt it was… eh.  I don’t know if I felt anything.  What would I tell a student in my 1A or other class?

Teaching myself to write all over again.  Feeling panicked, knowing I lost track of where I was in the 100-days project, the second pass.  Passing on it, entirely.  Focus on the writing, I tell myself and anyone reading.  Start over.  Write only essays, books, and a couple entries here and there.

Nearing the end of my day, which is technically at 4 but may leave at 4:30.  Have to pick up both Emma and Jack across town then head home.  Tired, and I know that’s part of it. Waking earlier than I have over the past two weeks with my leads group being on hiatus and kids being out of school, so no need to wake that early.  Today I did and I am absolutely feeling it right now.  That’s slid and dug itself into mood.  And I second-guess self.  So I embrace and reject it at the same time.  Have some new leads to scroll through, but maybe I can do that tomorrow.  No, I’ll do a little now…. But the writing. That’s what worries me.  Why am I struggling with it?  Why am I BLOCKED?  Don’t I make fun of students who claim WB?  Yes, but now I can’t.  Not anymore.

No TV tonight.  No netlix show bullshit.  Freewrite.  About anything.  The wine I pour, about this blockage I feel, about how I keep telling myself I’m going to learn French this year but haven’t even looked at one word.  Learning a language is WORK, and this is a blog about work, right?  So what’s the problem?  Paresseux….  I’ve been just that, Paresseux.  Which means LAZY.  I never want to be known, seen, spoken of as such.  So, I’m diving into a French vocabulary tub.  Can’t right now, as I’m at my main work way at Sonic, and need to go through these leads.  Wanted another contract today but I don’t think I’m getting one.  Fine, I will tomorrow.  Don’t have too much on calendar, so I’ll just devote the day to getting ink from somewhere.

And again I get that sense, of intensely disliking everything I’m writing.  What do I do….. I’ve always considered myself a writer before anything.  I’m really having this issue now… wow.  Wine… stick with wine.  Wine solves, and mends, but it also slows.  Well, when you sip it, yes.  What about just writing about it… owning my own shop, or winery, or both. A shop with my label on some shelf.  I can feel it now, this is certainly the exhaustion.  I’m not convinced this is writer’s block, maybe it’s something far worse. What if I can’t write… oh FUCK.  I should read that productivity essay or article or whatever again. 

No I shouldn’t.  Just leave it alone.  Start writing EOD report, comb through those leads, and leave.  Call the day.  Day, DONE.  No more laziness, no more questioning.  Write wine… write about wine, sipping it in some vineyard, or in your shop. Keep moving, be productive if only for the sake of so.  Same with writing… if you hate what you’re typing, all the more reason to keep on keys.  Don’t you tell students that?

4:12.  Tired but not sick, thankfully.  Didn’t take much of a break as I’ve been that nonstop writer all day… appointments and research.

Alone in office, or this part of the office, and looking forward to seeing my babies.  Jack on the mend, so hopefully we can joke as we always do, slightly irritate Melissa.  Not to be mean, but it’s our thing.  And all from love, I swear.  Know some husbands would say that and not really say it.  But I am.

Desk a mess, not even a spec of interest in clearing, cleaning, organizing.

Slowing down.  I’m not getting sick, I’m not getting sick.  Can’t afford it.  Have to work, Sunday.  And, I just don’t fucking want to be sick.  No more noble or heroic than that.  I just don’t like being slow, warm then cold then hot then so fucking tired I could fall asleep on the cereal isle at whatever store.

Establishing more connections and conversations, then will begin my wrap of day.  My EOD..