It’s that time again to remind you that I have out-of-control A.D.D. or since I’m an adult it is A.A.D.D, as fully explained in a post I wrote in April called Focus.
This scattered-minded affliction requires a great amount of skill to write a blog post on a regular basis and even more challenging, to write a short story, and darn near impossible to write a whole freakin’ novel, all of which I do with the ease and expertise of an agoraphobic public speaker; an acrophobic high rise window washer, a claustrophobic elevator repairman. You get the idea.
Today I did not wake up with some awe-inspiring notes for a blog post. No. That happens every day. It’s sitting in one place long enough to write it, and then, when I do I forget what I’m going to say and write by the seat of my pants. So rather than my usual random posting, I shall link to another kindred spirit that I found on Novel Journey whom speaks dear to my heart.
Speaking of kindred spirit, Judy talks about the wonderful world of yoga on her blog today. And other than my brief excuse explanation of cluttered-brain-doesn’t-want-to-empty syndrome, is that my brain can’t. In high school, I had a psychology teacher who hypnotized his students as part of the class assignment. As all the heads slumped to their desks upon his command, I sat there wide-eyed and ever alert. After several such group hypnosis’s, it became abundantly clear it wasn’t happening for me. He wouldn’t give up hope. He then tried one-on-one hypnosis and when that failed, he then gave me my prognosis: I’m not programmable. That wasn’t what he said, but that was what he implied. After seeing my let down, he told me the bright side was that though I could never be hypnotized, I could also never be brainwashed.
So given the amount of opportunities there are out there to thwart a brainwash attack, I don’t see much advantage for having a busy brain. I can’t train the brain; I’ve tried. Each and every day I formulate a new plan, new and improved fail proof plans that involve lists, timers, routines, and severe punishments that involve food deprivation and sometimes depending on how ruthless I’m feeling, exercise. Each day I fail.
Today I failed.
I was to begin writing at promptly 9am. I sit. I get up because I forgot the litter box. I sit again and open my email. One hour later, I decide my hair is in my eyes. I cut my hair. I sit. The phone rings. It is someone wishing me a happy birthday. Is it my birthday? I sit, but remember I can’t leave my hair on the floor. I vacuum. I fold clothes. I …
Is there hope? Is there a straight forward path to the focused thought? And more importantly, do you think there will ever be a market for a novel comprised entirely of fragmented stories that have thirty different plot lines and none at all? Just wonderin’.