Writing Boot Camp, Day 1

11:40AM. OK, so I've sworn off Facebook for the 4-hour window of the little experiment in social pressure that is the "Kick (Your Own) Butt Writing Boot Camp", but I'm going to try to keep a blog window open to keep the writing happening and perhaps (?) work through writer's blocks that come up while sitting here. The first day is in Actual Cafe at Alcatraz and San Pablo and, true to form, I'm the only one here. Along with all the other wonderful people in the cafe, of course.

But of course that's not true...I think that there will be other people who want to kick their butts into shape a little bit and get writing as well, and what's needed is a little bit of structure. How to create that in the me-first crowdsourced, anti-hierarchical age we live in? And how can "boot camp" be anything other than a playful metaphor for consumption just like all the rest, when even the Army has now for a few years resorted to the slogan "Army of One"?

1:09PM. Not much blogging in the last few hours is, hopefully, a good thing. Over 400 words written in the past 4 hours which is also, hopefully, a good thing. 100 words/hour actually feels like a fast pace given where I've been in writing recently. The reality with reading and note-taking figured in--let alone sleeping, eating, exercise, working, and the myriad other activities and distractions that fill everyday life--is that it's slower. And to project out to the number of words required for the whole dissertation is, in a word, depressing.

Anyway, it was a good start. Thanks, Actual.

176 second warm-up

what are all these people doing here? it's the first night of spring break. was just sitting outside and that felt better, actually. was worried it'd be too cool but no. come inside and it feels a little like a jungle. sarah is intent. the guy next to me drums his fingers on the table and then starts writing again, mechanical pencil, textbook open in front of his notebook, so old-school. twirls his pencil around in his finger, looks up, has earphones in. classical music continues. what composer is this? don't recognize the composer. the group of three women sitting across at the table talking like flowing water in a bubbling brook. aren't they they ones i saw a few days ago? music takes a faster turn, other people talking over by the counter. the man behind it, thin moustache, smooth face, nice disposition, always a friendly greeting for me...about time you learned his name, ain't it, dave? how many times have you seen him? meanwhile guy at other table on the other side of the door closes his computer, half says to person next to him (without looking, mind you), i'm gonna go make a phone call. two people leave right after him, and then another 20 seconds later, and both times the guy with the open books next to me looks up and briefly pauses writing as if to think. scratches his head, rolls it around a little, keeps writing. things are flowing. the brook keeps bubbling. music keeps rolling. guy on phone keeps talking. sarah is still intent. and my hands are now warm enough to go back to what i sat down here to do...thanks for following along.