At some point in time, I had chosen to blame my disappointing productivity on the Internet. There were always RSS feeds to catch up on, inboxes to clear, and instant messages to respond to. Slowly but surely, this monster was eating away at my soul… But a week ago I decided to take my life back and I made a change in my mentality: the computer should no longer be my obligation.
That was all it took to free me.
This, however, was not my only radical change in perspective. Yesterday I went out to lunch with Father, and made the curious discovery that he, currently working some tedious job at a bank involving endless numbers and terms of agreements, had actually majored in English. English, as in language and literature, as in composition and analysis. Up until that point I had held a vague idea that writing always had to be a career choice, that in order to be considered a true writer your name had to show up on the front cover of a book or under some big, bold headlines.
And up until that point, I thought that words behaved in a linear manner, much like a math equation. To me they were mere statements of fact or opinion, pertaining to only one direction. In that sense, the right words always eluded me, and a perpetual scowl of distaste followed any instance self-reflection.
As much as I hate the truth, I guess it’s time to expand my boundaries and venture out a little.