Do you know what, my friends?
Fifteen minutes is a long damn time.
In fifteen minutes, I can write infinitely more than I can write in zero minutes.
It also turns out that fifteen minutes feels much, much longer than zero minutes. I think I’m pretty deeply habituated to the kind of useless multitasking that all the journalists are chirping about lately. The first few times I did the fifteen minute practice again, I peeked at the timer after what seemed like an intense, long period of concentration, and found out that an entire minute and a half had elapsed. Evidence that I need this practice even more than I thought.
I’m toying with the idea of a media fast of some sort, too. Years ago, in my lithe and focused mid-twenties, I started reading The Artist’s Way. I was all about the morning pages, but when I got to the chapter requiring a fast from media (specifically reading, if I remember right) it started to seem like quackery, and I quit.
I think now that back then, without so much internet, I hadn’t yet begun to abuse reading to the point where I needed to press the reset button. Right now, I’m pretty convinced I need a break.
We’re going canoeing for three days in a couple of weeks. That’ll be a good start.
Meanwhile, in the hottest, most humid week of the year, I’m grateful for my sweet, cool basement writing space and for the will to stay there.