I’ve got a few minutes of unexpected downtime.
So — like second nature it seems — my mind moves to open Facebook.
Oh, but.. wait, I just deleted it from my phone two days ago. But how about on my computer? I logged out two days ago, with intention.
Instagram? Same story. Twitter and LinkedIn, same. Jesus, how did I ever get to the point where I was checking LinkedIn on weekends, anyway?
So, ok. I’ve got this intention and growing drive in me to write. So yeah, let’s start with now. I’ve turned down this impulse for a decade.
I hesitate — do I have enough time? What if someone calls? Will it be substantial enough to justify launching into before I head out on a date? Screw all that. Ok, but should I write it in a Google Doc, in case I don’t intend to publish… or, if I write something personal, would Google or Medium use my data in a way that I may come to regret? Too late for that anyway.
So here I am. Cool. You know, I would love it if it became my habit that my instinct is to start writing. God forbid I don’t have “enough time” now, and I just pick up next time where I leave off here. After all, I’ve dreamed of writing since high school, when I wrote a novella. Since film school, when I wrote my first feature film script after freshman year. And a bunch of other stuff since, but never in the form that I imagined: a novel.
A dystopian novel. Even writing those words, I feel an excitement in me.
And it feels especially relevant now. Not because of all of the turmoil that is current world affairs.
Dystopian because of what’s going on in me, now. A slightly dystopian crumbling of the mind, is what I feel like I’m experiencing.
So consider this the beginning of a dystopian novel. To be continued…