Oh, how I love that word! Unstoppable! I can pretend to be the mighty Mississippi, raging through tiny towns and hamlets! I am a towering inferno, and even Steve McQueen and Paul Newman together in the same room can’t distract me! I am Denzel Washington atop a runaway freight train!
Before I know it, I’m going to be living my life to the fullest! Or breaking through the fear to a dazzling future! Fulfilling my wildest dreams!
Any minute now!
All I have to do is use these 14 or 33 or 106 simple steps! I just have to build a morning routine, triple my productivity, maximize my output, stay focused, make my first million, be intentional, go with the flow, declutter, buy more books, stop worrying, take a cold shower, run a hot bath, start a journal, use my smart phone more efficiently, turn off my smart phone, eat healthy, enjoy my guilty pleasures, run 5 miles, stop running every day, create a foolproof social media strategy, take a break from social media, publish irresistible posts, use these hacks and hey, where is that damn elevator pitch?
Sheesh. It’s 4am and I’m already exhausted.
Trust me, I’d love to be an unstoppable, deliriously happy millionaire as much as the next guy. (More, probably. There’s this sailboat I’ve got my eye on.) But it’s just not my reality.
I am totally stoppable.
It doesn’t take much, either. A snowstorm can put me to bed for days. Getting home from KFC to find I have wings instead of legs — that’s two hours of Candy Crush right there. And don’t let me get a rejection letter for one of my stories. It might blow my whole weekend.
Of course, I will eventually drag my laptop into bed with me and write up a suspenseful murderous snowman story. I’ll turn those chicken wings into flying vampire zebras on a gay cruise. And that rejected piece will get a new title or some cool new adverbs and be flung back out into the universe.
Not today, but soon. After the weekend and a brewery tour and four more episodes of Breaking Bad. I’ll get there.
But if I measure my creative output by my stoppability, I’m doomed.
There are no meds for Shiny New Thing Syndrome.
And if there were meds, I’d be that non-compliant patient who’d never take them, because they make me feel like a zombie. I was diagnosed with SNTS as a youngster; there is still no cure, and precious few dollars being spent on research. My brain dashes from one ridiculous idea to the next, and I just have to bounce along with it.
OMG is that a glow-in-the-dark surfboard? Can I try it? Can-I-can-I-can-I???
I have to go now.
I’m already living the dream.
I’m going to implement those 14 or 33 or 106 simple steps just as soon as I learn fractal geometry — so, never.
Here’s what I am going to do, though. I’m going to be grateful I woke up this morning — that I’ve got another day here with you amazing people. I’m going to walk my dog and make a truly spectacular cup of coffee and scroll through all the crazy ideas in my head.
I’m going to read something new and write something wild and try something a little bit dangerous. I’ll let you know how it goes.
And hey — don’t try to stop me.