I am at Public library.
On my left, I keep the books I’m reading these days (Team of Teams) and my Russian language textbook.
To fight off the drowsiness that comes with withdrawal symptoms, I place two cups of coffee and a pack of Eclipse candy within reach.
And before I start writing, I remove my wristwatch—my own minimal perceptual switch, a small ritual to sever everyday flow and enter writing mode.
When I’m not writing, I put the watch back on.
Not to check the time, but simply to mark the rhythm of beginning and ending.
I never use mechanical pencils. They break too easily.
A pencil, on the other hand, has that Toyota-like appeal: it never fails as long as you sharpen it.
It’s also much cheaper, so losing one or two doesn’t deal a heavy psychological blow.
And each time I write, it gets shorter—a strange sense of accomplishment.
As the pencil shrinks, my pile of Russian words grows.
And the thought of soon starting a new pencil gives me a quiet joy.
Then I open my diary and write down today’s tasks.
If I’m not writing, I close the laptop or hide it from sight.
Because a laptop has its own kind of “intentionality.”
It seems to whisper: open me, write something.
Even the bitten-apple logo feels like it’s urging me: finish the apple, don’t leave it half-eaten.
If you enjoyed this article, you can support the project – thank you!