By the name of
. . . which by definition means the day is ruined. My choices abound, most of them depressing. So I cycle a bare minimum and head to a local café. If I can’t get in a full day, let me aim for a half day. I block out Facebook. I work. Work gets done. I smile.
Drafting 1,000 words is hard enough but some days I hit a barrier that requires going back into the research books. Today I wrote:
Everyone talks about “containment” protecting reactors. The term sounds simple: protective overpants preventing radioactive spillage if a disaster strikes.
But what does it REALLY mean? Why isn’t it obvious to me which of the world’s reactors have containment or not? Is “containment” a fuzzy term that hides more than it shows?
Meaning? (After a break:) rise, slug, rise.
It’s a Monday, nearly two months into 2018. This Big Year is working but is creating havoc in the rest of life. So it’s goodbye Bar Ristretto for five days, off to hike in the western part of Victoria. Much restorative and reflective time is needed.
Constriction/restriction. As in “Nevertheless there are moments of deep astriction . . .” from, of all things, last weekend’s lovely article about the National by Julian Tompkin
Today I’m as jittery as one of those old jerky Talking Heads songs. I seem to be throwing out the careful Big Years architecture of my days. It all sounded so logical when I planned for 2018 but of course, nothing ever pans out how you want it to. Because I’m not rising early, because I feel compelled to work on the book’s draft words, I’m shoving aside the exercise component of my daily schedule and I’m working in strange stints.
But here’s the good news. If I sit down and work solid stretches, ignoring emails and FB, every day advances the book. Every and each day. Nothing could be better. Nothing.
1,000 words a day . . . exactly what does that lead to? My project planning these days is so, so vague. In the corporate sector, I’m sure I’d have lost my job. But I’m wary of setting myself completion or publication dates, having broken so many promises in the past. I have some “biggie” goals in the back of my mind but right now, midway through February, I’ll keep them secret.
For now, 2018 is a fog to swim through. As soon as I can see more clearly, I’ll put up some proper, quantifiable aims.
Life quickly mocks plans, or at least that’s my experience. After a handful of sick leave days have stopped exercise, I rise late, thereby ruining my theoretical writing program for the day. Mid-morning, I’m in Ristretto, about to pack up and head home. The plan is to get back jogging in the early afternoon, then do what I can for more work. But I’m working so well, I cry (silently)! So I change tack completely, deciding to work uninterrupted (no Facebook, Andres) until 2:30 PM to secure my “morning hours.” I have a Ristretto flatbread for lunch and this reminds me of sending out for a quick sandwich from the Collins Street office. I wallow in data and words.
Verdict: how wonderful! The equivalent of an ideal morning’s work and 1,400 words. My exercising 90 kms/30 kms/3 targets for the week are in tatters but I had to make a choice and I did and it was the right one.
A lover of rain