Writing (and Living) In the Face of Infinite Distractions

Sometimes I wonder if I’m really a writer at all.

Of course, I’d like to think of myself as one. But I hardly write. I always think about writing, but I never seem to be able to just sit down and do it.

“My brain is too cluttered to write.” Is what I often say, to others and to myself. But I suppose a more accurate statement would be: “I spend too much time cluttering my brain to have time to write.” When I have even a minute of free time, I rush to fill it with entertainment. I seem to be unable to leave my brain alone for the time it takes to walk down the stairs. Videos. Movies. TV. Podcasts. Audio books. Constantly. I fill my mind with other people’s voices so I do not have to hear the echo of my own. I spend so much time keeping my head packed full with information that I don’t have even a second to create. I know. It isn’t good for me. I don’t need anyone to preach that to me. I feel the guilt that comes from wasting all this time viscerally enough to understand how harmful it is. Even so, I can’t stop. I have a violent need to be constantly entertained. It really is an addiction.

It’s a generational addiction. But really, who can blame us? Who can blame me? If I have the entire world in a little box in front of me, why would I be interested in the world inside of me? If I have a palm-sized machine that has the ability to cause me to laugh, to feel joy, no matter how superficial or fleeting or momentary, how can I be expected to ignore it? Even in moments like now, when I do write, my phone stares at me from the corner of my vision. It’s always, always in the peripheral, calling “If that gets boring, here I am. When your energy dips, when you can’t think of the next line to write, here I am. When you need a break, just a short one, of course, put the pen down. And here I am with the means to fill your mind. To let you rest.”

But it isn’t rest, is it? For the body, of course, it is. Laying in bed and watching a screen. But for the mind? Can I really call it rest when my brain is working constantly to look, listen, observe, consume? My brain doesn’t stop working as I scroll, it just works in a way that isn’t beneficial to me. It buzzes, it consumes without learning, without storing. I gain utterly nothing from being in front of a screen like that.

But a part of me wonders, isn’t that okay? Isn’t it allowed for me to do something without gaining from it? Yes. No. Sort of. I know I don’t need to be productive. Not constantly at least. I don’t need to be earning money or learning or creating 24/7. But I’m starting to realize that, even outside the field of productive/not productive, there are 2 different kinds of action: Ones that enrich your life and ones that don't. I can't see how the brain rot of constant entertainment could possibly qualify for enrichment. I want to spend my time doing things that benefit my well being and the wellbeing of others. That certainly doesn’t mean these things have to make me happy, or even make me feel good. But things that force me to exist, to experience, to live: these are what I want my days to be full of. I am at my least alive when I’m mindlessly entertained.

So when am I at my most alive? When I’m with my friends. When I’m laughing so hard my ribs hurt. When a poem strikes a chord deep within me, when I strike a certain chord on the guitar. When I’m crying my eyes out. When I’m arguing with someone over something I”m passionate about. When I reminisce about old lovers, old friends. When I think about a crush. When I take the first bite of a meal I’ve been craving. When someone tells me or shows me they care. When my hair is sitting just right or my makeup looks especially good.

And when I can fight through all of these distractions, ignore everything screaming for my attention, and finally, FINALLY sit down put any of these things into words. That’s when I feel like I’m really living.