Tag: discipline

The Wide Receiver

I once met a man who’d been a wide-receiver.

We’d gone through a new acquisition. Marketing asked me if I wanted a job. He was the Director of Marketing, and my new boss.

Our business was coronary and peripheral catheters. I was just learning the business. He took me to hospitals. We’d watch procedures. He’d explain things and introduce me to people.

We spent a lot of time on the road, and learned things about each other. He’d been a wide-receiver in high school and college. Small, he’d been fast, quick, intelligent, and disciplined. Good route runner. But as he progressed, he encountered competition from other wide-receivers. They were faster, bigger, and stronger, and just as intelligent and disciplined.

Eventually, he left that field, but he loved football, so he became a high school football coach. Through it all, from the first spark of desire, running was what kept him going. He ran five miles every day. One night, while sharing a bottle of wine with our dinner, he confided, “I run every day, because I’m afraid to stop. I’m afraid that if I stop, I won’t ever run again.”

I think of Jon tonight because I thought, I need a break from writing. Like Jon, I’m afraid, that if I take a break, the seed that defines the essence of who I believe I am will dry up and crumble.

 

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Sudoku Puzzles & Writing

I love doing sudoku puzzles, completing at least two a day. Naturally, I like more challenging ones, because solving them is more satisfying.

After years of doing them on specific websites and in the newspaper, I’ve recently discovered a new site for doing them. Their logic seems different than what I’ve previously encountered, which makes them more difficult, which translates to more challenging and fun.

It also reinforced the need to not take shortcuts or jump ahead. I’ve found the best way to solve these is to maintain discipline and process the different logical devises employed in a step-by-step process.

I’ve also learned that sometimes the complexity will overwhelm me, and I become frustrated. When that happens, I stop the clock, save the work, close the page, and walk away. Returning to it in a short while with fresh eyes and mind then lets me see obvious clues that were missed earlier.

This reinforces my writing processes and approach. I’m often a sucker for clickbait about how-to articles regarding writing and publishing. I’m not necessarily seeking easier, but that elusive realm known as better. I often find that they’re packaging the same writing advice I’ve seen everywhere else, but with new words and more interesting headlines. There’s very little that offers sage advice about writing better.

That makes sense.

Guidelines are well-established for proper structures or how to describe characters and settings, write action scenes and pacing. But each of our works, hopefully, are unique and fresh to us as writers. Nothing is as clearly delineated as it is in hindsight of published works. We’re making multiple decisions about pacing and info-dumps, trying to decide how much of what we know becomes too much for the reader, or spoils the story.

In the end, I learned again lessons found in solving sudoku puzzles. Stay true to the my course. Don’t take shortcuts, remain patient, and use anxiety to feed determination to finish.

And, if it’s necessary, take a damn break and return to it with fresh eyes and mind.

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Not Writing

It’s a bummer of a day.

You don’t need to read this. I just need to write it out. Therapy.

I’m sick, and it’s encouraging depression.

It’s mostly a chest cold. Nothing major. I can sometimes hear my breathing in my chest, particularly on my left side. Other symptoms are arising in my head and joints.

Bummer. I wrestled a long time about not going out to walk and write. I wrestled for a long time about whether I should wash up. A compromise was reached that I would shower. Then the question was, hot or cold? I haven’t taken a hot shower since March 20. I really didn’t want to break that streak just because I’m under the weather.

Another compromise was extended and accepted that I would take a short warm shower.  Then, scorning myself, I took the cold shower. It was probably a stupid decision. It felt freezing. Then, though, no shaving.

What about deodorant? Debating that for a few minutes helped convince me not to go write. I didn’t understand what the debate was about. Why was it a question?

I’d lost my boxer shorts somewhere between the master bedroom and the attached master bath. I knew I’d gotten some out of the drawer; where the hell did they go? Well, I must have put them somewhere strange. No kidding. They certainly didn’t develop legs and walk out on their own, did they, as Mom would ask.

The missing boxers were found after a few minutes, hiding in plain sight on the bench at the foot of the bed. After dressing and enduring a coughing fit, I agreed with myself, don’t go out.

Then came the guilt.

Why is it that I feel guilty about being sick? Why do I feel like I’m a malingerer?

I guess it’s something about being told to work hard and be disciplined. That’s the mantra drilled into me. “Work hard. Be disciplined.” I also feel resentment because women like to mock men when they get sick. Oh, men don’t know what it’s like to suffer or experience pain. “Poor man, he has a cold. Aw.” It’s one of their standard jokes, as regular as men mocking women for getting lost or being consumed with shopping and buying shoes and clothes. So now, I’m like, validating their joke of a stereotype. Bah.

I’m also angry about being sick. I feel like I’ve betrayed myself. I feel like I’m betraying myself by accepting that I’m sick and indulging in not going out, writing and doing the things I normally do. I had plans, damn it.

Well, screw all of that. I want to go to bed.

Maybe some tea and toast first. Maybe some hot soup.

My head feels like the large granite rock in my front yard. My neck is tired of holding it up. Why the hell must I have such a large, heavy head?

Maybe just bed.

5

Cold Therapy Update – April

A University of Pennsylvania study of brain scans showed some striking differences between how men and women’s brains work. “In the study, women scored well on attention, word and face memory, and social cognition, while men performed better on spatial processing and sensori-motor speed.” Female brains worked back and forth across the hemispheres while male brains tended to work front to back.

Everyone cautions, brains are not hard-wired, a major tenet of philosophy, along with the premise that generalities are generalities.

I also think that discipline in one realm spills out in another spill. I think that, though, because this is how it works for me. It seems to be how I’m wired. I don’t know if that’s forward to back.

My last hot water shower was on March nineteenth. It’s been cold showers since, a challenge on my last two weeks as I traveled and visited families. One of the ways I’m wired is to take a hot shower to relax and prepare, especially when traveling. I love checking in, making plans and kicking it all off with a hot, relaxing shower to clean off travel grime.

Boy, rejecting hot showers were a tempting challenge in the hotels and homes I stayed in during the last two weeks. Be strong, I told myself, shivering until the cold blast. And I was.

I don’t know if it helps me rewire myself, if there is re-wiring involved in discipline and choices, or if I’m just smoking myself. But afterwards, I feel good. I feel strong and ready to go on.

Much as I do after a hot shower.

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Cold Therapy Continues

March 20th marked the beginning of my cold therapy challenge for myself. Today’s cold shower was my ninth.

I’m very slowly acclimating. Washing my hair (twice) was the worst. I turn the water off after soaking my head to apply the shampoo and lather up. It seems like standing in the shower during that interlude feels bitter cold.

Still, it’s a choice and it’s inside, where it’s sixty-eight degrees. It’s better than many have. Yeah, I whine and rant about it because c’est moi.

On the bright side, I’m probably saving money on the water and gas bills.

0

Zombie in the Mirror

It’s easy to notice holes in my sock. Although I put them on mindlessly, the difference in color, the sock’s small size and the focus I use to put on my socks (even if it’s a recurring practice that I can do in my sleep) help highlight the message to the brain, “Hole.” Then debate commences about whether wearing a sock with a hole in it is acceptable on that day. I usually do, unless I’m going through an airport, visiting someone’s home who require shoes be taken off at the door, or trying shoes on. Other than those times, I’ll keep wearing it unless a toe sticks through it. That physical impression disturbs me.

Most other things about my dress aren’t noticed by me. I barely notice my hair when I brush it. I’ve become more thoughtful about my shaving because I became curious about it, but clothing? Naw. Others must point out the holes in a shirt, a stain, a frayed collar, a tear in my jeans. I’m the zombie in the mirror, practicing life by rote. I like those comfort habits. Comfort clothes. Comfort food. Sandwiches for lunch. Sandwich is a big comfort food.

Unfortunately, as written here before, my body and wheat’s relationship with it is becoming abrasive. I let myself go the other day – hell, the other week – and enjoyed sandwiches, chile relleno pie, zucchini muffins, pizza, even a couple veggie cheeseburgers. On top of that were IPAs and Amber Ales, and blackberry cobbler.

Symptoms of wheat overdose arose. I was eating like a zombie, not thinking about my intake, and following zombie routines about what I ate, where I went, and what I didn’t eat. Bloating began. My waist swelled. Shorts grew tighter. I was phlegmy each morning. I developed a baby bump. Joints started aching. Sleeplessness rose. Energy, focus and concentration dipped. And finally, when the urine was a meager trickle, I recognized what I’d done.

So I vowed it all off. No wheat in any form, I told the zombie in the mirror. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Sandwiches….”

“What’s Michael’s favorite food?” a friend asked my wife.

My wife laughed. “Sandwiches.”

I couldn’t argue, as habits and history supported her. So that’s where I was, giving up sandwiches, pies, beers, for a while, wheat in any form for a while. Was not fun. Most know how it goes: try not to think of something, try not to do something, and it grows like the blob to dominate your brain. Or so it happens in my brain.

But it worked. Sleep and urine returned (not at the same time), pains faded, concentration, energy and focus returned, bloating dissipated and my waistline dropped.

It’s not fun, giving up wheat. It’s not a permanent thing, either. I’ll have beer again, and eventually other things. I can indulge in these things with wheat, in moderation.

I just need to watch out for the zombie that I can be.

 

2

The Iceberg

Friends this week asked about my writing, or, actually, about my book, or books. Writing and the many projects are so much like icebergs, revealing a little topside but mostly submerged from sight and awareness. Limited progress and activities are exposed on this blog and FB posts but there is generally so much more.

I have two books out. Another is in the publishing machine. That’s the iceberg’s tip. Another book is completed and in editing and formatting. We’ll designate that the water line. I sort of track those more in depth on Booklife but even that is just the water line and above. Below that, another ten books are written. Some have been edited and revised. All need copy editing and formatting. A spreadsheet has their progress.

But at greater depths are the many novels in progress on computer, in notebooks, folders, and realms of paper. Many, many more exist as notes on concepts, ideas and characters. Some of the notes are written. I’d say thirty percent are written notes. The other notes are sticky pages in my mind. There are short stories, plays and screenplays, musicals, novels and series. There are always many things to write.

I used to spread myself out and work on several pieces in parallel. Now I focus on one and write like crazy. Then I revise, edit and polish one. And then I publish one.

Not as much fun in many ways as plunging into creativity’s cauldron and letting all these ideas flame into being. But the trudging, one at a time process, results in more tangible progress.

Whichever way, it’s always about writing for me, and writing like crazy. Time for that, once more.

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