Time has been a slippery subject for me recently. I committed to imitating Haruki Murakami’s writing schedule. Yes, I did modify it to be somewhat reasonable for me, but it was still extreme, for me. At first my body didn’t actually register that I was awake. I pulled off feats of making Coco Wheats in my sleep. I ended up going back to bed on those days, because creative work cannot be done like sleep-cooking. However, when I woke up there was still the list of other tasks on my extreme schedule. I could redeem my day through finishing those tasks. My creative work assumed a new importance. Even though, I wasn’t doing it exactly the way I wanted I was getting work done. I’m still struggling, but I’ve been up more days than not this week, and my page output has gone from three to five. I’m also appreciating the required exercise. My teacher has set such an extreme example as far as exercise goes that I feel embarrassed not to get my thirty minutes in.
One big benefit of adopting this schedule is I’ve finally moved into my office. I’ve been living and working either in my bed or on the living room couch. One of the great perks of this house was a bonus space that really only works as my office. My office looks lived in, but really it’s mainly been storage. In order to make the breakfast somewhat fancy I moved a microwave I’d bought for the rec room up to my office. Doing most things in the office maintains an illusion of being a serious writer. There is the problem that the electric wasn’t built for appliances, so I have to be thoughtful about what I turn on when. My bag of reading and writing has been pulled out and sits on its own. My big squishy chair is doing its job. I’m writing, regularly. Hurrah! Haruki!
Things are still rickety, but they are moving forward. Forward at any speed is better than sitting still, at least that’s what I’m feeling right now.
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