I came home last night from a long week. Ate dinner. Turned on the TV. Just to watch the news. The voice in my head said, “Enjoy a show.” I ended up watching four hours of British detective stories. I could have written some really bad stuff in those four hours. And felt rejuvenated. Instead I was sucked dry.
Iguana brain won.
Calvin says, “Hey, you had me on your lap for four hours. I was after that iguana.”
It’s Goldberg’s monkey brain, Godin’s lizard brain, Pressfield’s self-sabotage.
Call it what you want. It doesn’t matter. We all feel it. It’s the immovable wall. The fear that tightens your heart. The paralysis that glues your feet to the floor. It’s losing your temper. Gossiping. It’s forays to the fridge, facebooking, tweeting, skydiving, trimming your wig, painting your bedroom again, learning new code. Anything to keep you away from writing, even a crisis. Especially a crisis.
The solution: Go after the thing that terrifies you the most. That’s the advice from the experts.
Create a ruckus. Be messy. Write drivel. But get out there.
We need your work.
Calvin says, “I want to go after a rabbit. Where do I find one in the city?”