I woke up at
noon.
the coffee was cold because
I made it at 6
and then went back
to bed.
I had all these
plans.
systems.
I wrote them down drunk
last night.
that liquid courage.
the kind that makes a man
believe he can change
his whole rotten existence
with a to-do list.
the plan was
beautiful.
wake up.
walk.
write.
two blocks of 45 minutes.
no phone.
no people.
just me and the page
fighting it out in a
dirty alley
until one of us stops
breathing.
instead I jerked off
and stared at the ceiling
for an hour
thinking about motorcycles
I'll never buy
and women who stopped
returning my calls
years ago.
the ceiling had a
crack in it.
I watched it
for a long time.
it wasn't going
anywhere either.
---
I got up
eventually.
reheated the coffee.
it tasted
the way my life felt.
burnt.
bitter.
barely worth the effort
but you drink it anyway
because what the hell else
are you going to do.
I sat in the chair.
the designated chair.
I read somewhere that you
need a designated chair.
a spot where the brain knows
it's time to work.
pavlov's dog shit.
ring the bell and
the words come out.
the words didn't
come out.
I sat there
looking at the blank page.
the cursor blinking.
mocking me.
that little black line
appearing and disappearing.
the most honest critic
I ever had.
I wrote one sentence.
deleted it.
wrote another.
deleted that too.
then I got up and
made more coffee
because I'm a coward
who mistakes motion
for progress.
---
the thing about discipline
is everybody wants to
talk about it.
they write books.
they make videos.
they have systems and apps
and accountability partners
and morning routines
and cold showers
and all that other bullshit
designed to make you
feel productive
while producing
nothing.
I know because
I do it constantly.
I write about writing
instead of writing.
I plan the work
instead of working.
I optimize the system
instead of using
the system.
then I feel accomplished
and I pour myself
three fingers of something brown
and watch the sun go down
on another wasted day.
---
the truth is ugly
and it goes
this:
you sit down.
you feel horrible.
you write anyway.
there is no trick.
there is no hack.
there is no secret
the successful people
are hiding from you.
there is just the chair
and you in it
and the hours passing
slow and painful
through your guts.
---
I read my own notes
from last night.
all that stuff about
performing regardless
of how you feel.
the stoics.
grit.
doing the boring shit
every day for decades.
I wrote that.
me.
the same guy who couldn't
sit still for 45 minutes
this morning.
the same guy who checked
his phone six times
before breakfast.
the same guy who knows
exactly what to do
and does none of it.
that's the joke.
knowing doesn't mean
shit.
I know smoking kills.
I know vegetables are
good for you.
I know that if I just
did the work every day
I'd have everything
I ever wanted.
I know all of it.
and here I am.
still broke.
still staring at
blank pages.
still full of plans
and empty of results.
---
my father worked
in a factory
for 40 years.
hated every minute
of it.
but he went.
every morning
he got up
and put on his boots
and went to that place
and did his time
and came home smelling
of machine oil
and regret.
he didn't read books
about discipline.
he didn't have a
morning routine.
he didn't meditate
or journal
or take cold showers.
he just went.
because that's what
you do.
you go.
you do the thing.
you don't ask yourself
how you feel
about it.
---
somewhere along the way
we started believing
our feelings mattered.
that we needed to
be inspired.
that we needed to
want it.
that motivation was
a prerequisite
for action.
bullshit.
my father never wanted
to go to that factory.
he went anyway.
for 40 years.
and it killed him
eventually.
heart attack at 63.
dead before he hit
the floor.
but that's not
the point.
the point is
he understood something
I still haven't learned.
the feeling doesn't
get a vote.
---
I'm sitting here now.
it's 3 in the
afternoon.
the day is mostly
wasted.
I've written nothing
of value.
eaten nothing of value.
done nothing that moves
the needle even a fraction
of an inch.
but I'm sitting here.
and that's something.
that's the smallest
possible something
but it's not nothing.
---
the problem with guys
who read too much philosophy
is they start thinking
understanding is the same
as doing.
I understand discipline
perfectly.
I can explain it to you
in six different frameworks.
I can quote the stoics
and the samurai
and the monks
and whoever else wrote
about this stuff.
but I can't do 45 minutes
without checking my phone.
I can't wake up at 5
and stay awake.
I can't do the boring thing
when the exciting thing
is right there glowing
in my pocket
ready to give me
a little hit of dopamine
every time I tap
the screen.
---
I had a woman once.
she was good for me.
made me get up
in the morning.
made me work.
made me feel ashamed
when I wasted a day.
then she left.
said I wasn't going
anywhere.
she was right.
I wasn't going anywhere then
and I'm not going
anywhere now.
the only difference is
now I don't have anyone
to disappoint
except myself.
and I've gotten very good
at disappointing myself.
it barely registers
anymore.
---
the only thing that
ever worked
was removing the choice.
when I had a job
I showed up.
not because I was
disciplined.
because I'd get fired
if I didn't.
when I had a woman
I performed.
not because I was
motivated.
because I'd lose her
if I didn't.
external pressure.
that's what moved me.
left to my own devices
I rot.
I sink into the couch.
I sink into my own head
and stay there
until the day is gone.
---
maybe that's the answer.
burn the boats.
make it so there's
no option.
the chair at 5am
isn't a choice
it's just what happens.
the work isn't something
you decide to do
it's just what the body
does at that hour.
no negotiation.
no internal debate.
no checking in with
your feelings
to see if they approve.
just the thing.
done.
daily.
until you die
or succeed.
whichever comes first.
---
tomorrow I'll try again.
I'll set the alarm
for 5.
I'll put the coffee maker
on a timer.
I'll lay out my clothes
the night before
so there's one less decision
between me
and the chair.
I'll probably fail.
I've failed a thousand
times before.
but maybe on the
thousand and first try
something sticks.
maybe one day I wake up
and it's just what I do.
no resistance, nor bargaining
in my skull.
just the work.
---
for now I'm still here.
3:47 in the afternoon.
half a pot of
cold coffee.
a blank page
I haven't won.
but I haven't quit either.
and that's something.
that's the only thing.
you don't quit.
you keep showing up.
you sit in the chair
and you stare at the page
and you wait.
sometimes the words come.
sometimes they don't.
but you sit there
either way.
45 minutes.
then you walk.
then you do it again.
that's all there is.
that's the whole secret.
there is no secret.
just the chair.
just the page.
just you.
showing up.
again and again.
until one day you don't
have to try anymore.
until one day it's just
what you are.
a person who does
the thing.
not because you feel it.
not because you want it.
because it's 5am
and that's what
happens now.
---
the page is waiting.
it doesn't care
how I feel.
it doesn't care about
my systems
or my philosophies
or my notes about
discipline.
it just wants words.
any words.
and that's what I'm going
to give it.
starting now.
---
there's a fly buzzing
around the room.
it keeps hitting
the window.
over and over.
it can see the outside
but it can't get there…
I know how it feels.
I can see everything
I want.
it's right there.
visible.
almost touchable.
but there's glass
between me and it.
and the glass is me.