40 Minutes
A story about focus
The Curse of Chalion by Lois McMaster Bujold is lying open on the bed. It beckons, and promises to let me into a brand-new world.
I realized sometime back that I generally lack single pointed focus, so I have decided to sit on my bed and read The Curse of Chalion for the next one hour.
Okay, no need. Forty minutes. Just forty minutes. That’s less than one episode of my favorite Korean show, Something in the Rain.
No TV. No Instagram. Most importantly: No sending/replying to Whatsapp messages.
I set an alarm. Everybody knows these grand plans don’t work out without timekeepers.
I admiringly reflect upon my iron resolve for a good three minutes and proceed to imagine the opportunities that this kind of discipline will open up for me.
See, I can get through these forty minutes with practically no effort. The book is, by no means, dull. After that I can slowly increase my “focus-time” to one, two and even three hours.
Imagine the things I could accomplish. I could even write my own novel.
Wait, what would I write? Some kind of fantasy.
Okay, but I won’t ramble on about dragons.
Dragons are so early 2000s.
Anyway, my point is that I could write my own novel, and then practice singing for two hours every day. That’s all it takes to become a professional singer, I have heard.
Yeah. I will specialize in a few raagas. Maybe just the evening ones.
*I sing a few lines of Raag Yaman*
*I record myself singing a few lines of Raag Yaman*
*I edit the recording of me singing a few lines of Raag Yaman*
*I post the edited recording of me singing a few lines of Raag Yaman on SoundCloud*
My phone beeps.
A message.
Ha. That’s precisely the kind of trap I am not going to fall into. I am not even going to look at my phone.
I smile at my sense of discipline and single-pointed focus, and look at my book again.
A few pages in, I see that somebody has commented on the recording I just uploaded.
No. Don’t open the comment. Focus. Back to the book.
I stare at the paragraph about the Daughter’s Day celebrations for a full five minutes. What the fuck is a daughter’s day now?
My mind has wandered off, and the book is steadily getting duller. I am angry about capitalism — everything needs a “day” now, so that someone can make money off of candy and toys.
Also, I can write better stories than this trash, for sure.
I am DEFINITELY going to be a novelist or a singer. Scratch that. Novelist and a singer.
I can see my Wikipedia page in my head, clear as day.
Ashwini Sriram, Singer/Novelist.
No scratch that.
Ashwini Sriram:
New York Times bestselling author, professional musician, and ceramicist
If that’s my actual goal, my ikigai (ha), then I’ll need to start writing now. In a few years, my face won’t resemble the imaginary black and white photo of the author I can see clearly in my head — suave, no wrinkles, casually smiling as though writing novels was a mere hobby of mine.
No biggie.
Okay, I need to start WRITING NOW.
I panic.
Chop chop.
The alarm goes off. The Curse of Chalion silently mocks.
My time is up.
