There is one thing that any artist understands: the elusive “zone.” The runner’s high of writing. Your brain, your heart, and your fingers forming a holy trinity. The story unfolding on its own. It’s a constant chase, finding the zone. It escapes you, but you don’t escape it. Some people melt into it, some dissolve completely, while some throw pebbles at it until it remembers that you’re still there waiting. I covet this feeling all the time, even when I’m working on schoolwork or writing an email. Hell, even this chapter. I feel the healthiest when I’m at my most productive, and vice versa, but per the last chapter, striking this productive balance is a battle of its own.
Something that’s been fairly difficult to admit to myself is that in order to be productive, I need structure. I’ve always been an imaginative kid at heart, and I’ve always aspired to have free time and flexibility. In my mind, this gives me the space where I have the most control, where I decide what I do, and I determine my own capabilities and limits. Instead, I retreat into a less productive, less ambitious, less willing version of myself, when I am normally very eager to be doing something. Idleness is one of the worst feelings to me, and yet I seek it out so frequently.
If I don’t have something to do in the morning, I don’t get out of bed before 11 AM. Without classes and deadlines, I spend the hours until lunch on my phone or computer doing nothing. In the evening, I might push myself to write half a chapter or work on something for my internship, or at least talk to my friends in a way that feels emotionally or intellectually stimulating. But ultimately, the day ends the way it did the night before, with me thinking to myself, “Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow won’t be a waste.”
In my most introspective moments, I wonder if this regression happens because it’s safer than trying and failing. Safer than realizing I’m not as good as I’ve been made to believe. Safer than confronting my shortcomings. Or I might just be lazy — until, of course, I know that something is expected of me by someone else, and I have a time limit.
None of us need a Hallmark card to know that the only real failure is a lack of trying.
Still, the pressure of a blinking cursor near equals the potential. I am just as anxious as I am excited. Every day, I wish I could airlift the beautiful images I’ve conjured in my head and put them to paper without having to lift a finger. I can imagine all I want, and I do, but if I want to write, I have to just write.
In my experience, the strategy is to be willing to write without the zone. If you’re a student, or you work, or you just have many obligations, you likely will have long stretches of time only once or twice a week. Which is why you can’t be afraid to just spend five to ten minutes writing uninspired paragraphs of nonsense that you can return to when you’ve actually found the zone, gawk at them because they’re so bad, and edit.
This is a tough habit to contend with because it makes my fear of mediocrity a self-fulfilling prophecy. I delay writing because I don’t want to be bad at it, and every time I try writing, it’s bad — and I just have to accept that. Consider it a sort of exposure therapy, and remember that by writing something, literally anything, you’ve already evaded failure.
As you do this, structure will follow. You’ll find the times of day that feel the most motivating. You’ll improve as a writer, little by little, until you’re confident enough in writing past those ten minutes, maybe even reaching a whole hour. You’ll realize you have a couple boring, unoccupied hours here and there. Once you develop a willingness to start writing, set timers and do nothing but write until the alarm goes off. You might not begin in a zone, but you’ll induce one and stay there for longer than you expect.
The idea here is to stop crucifying yourself for not meeting your expectations of productivity or quality but to also stop enabling your lazy behavior. Not everyone can naturally fall into an ideal routine, especially in a world with so many things begging for your attention.
Your attention is so much more valuable than you think. Direct it to fulfilling, meaningful activities. If you think you aren’t good enough, prove yourself wrong.
By Oshmi Ghosh
Oshmi Ghosh is a rising junior at NYU’s College of Arts and Sciences, pursuing a bachelor’s degree in English with minors in Creative Writing, History, and Entertainment Business. You can usually find her appreciating the simple things in life: tea with milk and sugar, a good book, and/or intensely competitive board games.
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