Week two of consistent revisions, and I am finding myself hating this corner of the room I’m in very much.
I’ve never really liked sitting down. Those who know me well enough have probably recognized that I have a habit of constantly moving, even if I have to sit down for whatever task is at hand. When I’m not getting up every two minutes to pace or wander around, I’m usually bouncing a knee, thumping my fingers on a desk, or bobbing my head. Hell, even in the car I usually nod my head to some song that isn’t even playing.
This would be a good thing, except that all of that extra energy is never directed, or focused, or properly channeled. It is wasted, nervous energy, because I’m something of a jittery little creep. I never really got out of the hyper phase I hit when I was two.
And that very trait is working against me like a craving for a drug addict. Sitting in this desk chair for hours at a time, seeing time go by and having been in a single space all day, I feel like time is getting away from me. I know it isn’t, but it SO FEELS LIKE IT. I feel lazy, cooped up, lethargic.
I’m combating this by going on long walks at specified times in the day, by whole-heartedly embracing my time outside when I take it. I allow myself to be dazzled by simple sights, like melting icicles shining in the sun, or trees bathed in shimmering sunlight, and I take every opportunity to simply absorb the world I see around me.
It makes the small, quartered hours seem much more expansive to my jittery, immature sense of perspective.
On a cognitive level, though, I simply look to my growing word count as proof of the validation of my efforts. This is work, I tell the big boy inside of me. This is effort, a slow, tedious thing that gives the finished goal the weight it needs to have value.
And so I keep typing, and I keep a movie or song on in the background, and I work.
I work. I don’t daydream, I don’t jot down flights of fancy to entertain myself. I work. I rehash sentences I’ve already written, I review material I’ve already ready, I write a novel I feel like I have already finished.
Because what’s fun is done right the first time, because fun, as it needs to be, is weightless.
What’s right, and more importantly, what’s satisfying, that takes time, and it has weight. Lots of weight, and you’ll notice it when you make the effort to carry it.
And when you hold it high, and you feel the toll it takes on you to carry it, you’ll feel the exhilarating, powerful strain that comes with that effort. That feeling of being broken down, and remade into something stronger and more powerful than you were before.
You’re greater, more whole for the exertion. You ‘ve earned what you have gotten.
Huh. Is that what grownups mean when they say “accomplished?”
Alright, then. That’s what I want. I want to feel “accomplished.”
Back to the chair, in my little corner. I’ll see the sunshine when I go on break. I’ve got work to do, under the fluorescent glow of a desk lamp. I will liberate myself through the shackles of work ethic.