Master of Distraction

When my friend Billy ‘The Blogging Poet’ Jones speaks of his writing compulsion, he does so with pride and remorse, like an addict who’s learned to live with his own particular jones. I myself was never so open about my own impulses, but I certainly understand what the bearded lyricist means when he speaks of scribbling down the trip. See, long before I issued electronic missives with flick of a wrist, I filled countless notebooks with doodles, spoofs and platitudes. Never one to let a good idea get in the way of a daydream, I filed away my broken prose and got back to my ambivalence. Not until my mid thirties did I realize the voice I yearned to discover had been there all along, like an director’s commentary on your favorite DVD you haven‘t gotten around to listening to yet.

Luckily, I learned to listen to my inner narrator and even take dictation, Before long I was scrawling furiously, rarely stopping to consider to the wisdom of my screeds before hitting ’send’ and moving on to the next half-baked notion. But a funny thing happened on the way to becoming prolific. I started thinking about just who might be ingesting my drivel, began worrying I was repeating myself and made the fatal mistake of re-reading my blather. Bad move. Before I knew it I was back to just thinking about writing again, instead of actually sitting at the keyboard and conjuring up the muse. It’s not quite like summoning a genie from a bottle, but you’d be amazed what you can accomplish by merely putting ass in seat.

I blame myself. While I hold no official sheepskin, I hold a Masters Degree in Practiced Distraction. Were I reared twenty years later, I surely would have been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder - instead of rightly classified as merely normal but lazy. That gift for underachievement rarely bothers me, but it kind of got to me today when, after watching an entire episode of MTV’s My Super Sweet 16, I realized I’d just watched an entire episode of MTV’s My Super Sweet 16. When the shame and uncertainty subsided I took to my keyboard confessional with renewed fervor, for even though what felt like the precipice of greatness a fortnight ago now vaguely smacks of a midlife crisis, I’m newly committed to documenting the descent. Strap in, would ya?