I’ve joked about how I can’t concentrate on anything. I start working on a poem, suddenly deciding to look up something online, only to discover an hour has passed and I’m reading about a totally different topic. I decide to enjoy the flowers in the backyard and five minutes later remember I need to start the laundry. I skim. I get bored.  I submit a piece of writing way before its time. I make mistakes.

Yesterday I started a new class in pastels at LibertyTown. I could barely wait for instruction, wanting instead to start smear the colors all over the paper.

This morning, I worked on one line of a poem, but then remembered I wanted re-write the last paragraph of my short story, then interrupted myself to change the submission guidelines for our new literary magazine, zipped off an email to a friend, ate part of my breakfast at 6 a.m., finishing it at 8:40, and then realized I hadn’t focused on one thing I’d try to do today.

Sigh. I sometimes blame the internet for contributing to this need for speed. But I’m not so sure I haven’t always been this way. I remember as a child looking out the window instead of listening to the teacher. When I took yoga, I found myself so impatient during the last five minutes when we were supposed to relax and lie still, that my mind kept saying, “Get on with it!”

The  one time I lose myself  is when I am at the beach. Hmmm, maybe I need to move.

I know being fearless and taking risks often moves us to a new place. I appreciate that. But I’m also thinking about this essay a friend sent today, and this post as it relates to my writing. Or lack thereof.