When he stared at the computer screen that day, he knew it had come to a breaking point - he would write that day. He'd thought out a revolutionary and novel way to ensure his concentration didn't waver. He would unplug his laptop from the internet.
The greatest plans are all simple. It's always a tiny detail that's coming between us and unleashing the full force of our potential. Here the tiny detail was the giant network of the web, constantly luring him away from the Word document which contained only bullet points, catch-phrases and a smattering of plot points. No sentences. No tangible story. It would soon be his grand novel.
Yanking out the LAN cable was cathartic. It was akin to a climactic scene from some dystopian movie, fighting past the droves of robots attempting to take over the world and finally disabling their main up-link. The seductions of social media and football columns and banal online humour were the evil robots stopping him from being the master of his own world. One pull to end it all.
The 'not connected' notification made him smile. It seemed absurd - a laptop not connected to the internet! What purpose would that serve? Hasten the completion of his would be masterpiece, he hoped.
The Word document was whipped open and his mind got whirring. The words flowed and his manuscript emerged from the chryalis of his LAN cable connected laptop days, sometimes limping, usually sauntering along and occasionally galloping swiftly. Slowly, surely, a dream pushed to the background ever since he picked up his first book was becoming a reality, enabled by a single pull of a wire.
Or so he wished. Perhaps the excuse of the Internet was the mask wielded by him to save his self-esteem. Perhaps all that praise he'd ever received through his life was all politeness and pity. Maybe even as he reread his written work every time, he knew deep down it didn't cut it. And it could and would never cut it. No one used to quality writing would ever read his bilge.
How would he ever face himself knowing his greatest dream was a far-fetched fantasy. His own estimation for his writing was a deception. His flair for writing never existed. There could be no other explanation.
Without the great distraction of the internet he stared at the still blank document. Each idea that crossed his mind was frivolous. His mind stuttered and stumbled and faltered at every paragraph. No plot held. No string of ideas followed from each other and he had to erase it all to take it from the beginning. Again and again and then one more time.
He felt many things. Indignation that no one ever told him the truth. Betrayal and confusion. He would be a run of the mill person after all. His autobiography would never be written, leave alone widely read. A 9 to 5 job in a cubicle for 40 years for a pension and a car and a house was what it would be. Nothing wrong with that, right?
He slumped on his bed and gave up for the day. A whole Sunday night wasted and now he would attend the week's classes sleep-deprived and always playing catch-up in every lesson, if he did manage to wake up in time for the class.
The music blaring on his ear-phones rather inconsiderately reached a crescendo of trumpets and drums as the end of Beethoven's 5th symphony was reached. It would have been poetic - a moment of inspiration, a bolt from the blue just when the orchestra ended on a high, a cue for the thunderous applause that followed. But it wasn't. The music stopped and he could hear his thoughts buzzing. He closed his eyes and brooded before sleep inevitably took over.
His next week was a daze. He'd missed the first Monday morning class and miraculously dragged himself to the second one, eyes and shoulders drooping. "Where am I going with what I'm doing?", he pondered constantly. Would he gain admission to study further? Would he find a job? Could he build a successful career anywhere? Yet another man in the swarm of humanity.
Maybe it was the sheer love for doing it, maybe it was a hint of masochism or perhaps the last surviving shred of belief in himself, but the next Sunday night found him at the laptop again, LAN cable out, blank Word document staring at him. He'd whiled away the week and here he was, back at it again with a childish, naive conviction that this week would be different, certain he would spend the next week chipping away at the word count.
The 10000 hour rule - that you have to "deliberately practice" something for 10000 hours to become world class at it - would be his only rule now on. So even when he wasn't working on his great novel, he would make sure he was pushing himself trying to write something, a short-story, an essay, a poem or just pen his thoughts as they came. It after all made sense to start somewhere and go in small steps, he told himself.
And then the idea struck. Not earth-shattering but something that gave him hope. He could pen a short story on just what had happened over the last week. His grand idea, the equally grand failure, his mental distress, the dilemmas and the doubts. All in third person. He sat up alertly. This was something.
It would certainly be no masterpiece, but it was words. Maybe he could squeeze a thousand words off it. And more importantly, it was an hour of deliberate practice. Only 9999 to go.
He closed his eyes and recollected the previous Sunday night. He rethought his thoughts and revisited his emotions. The story was beginning to consolidate. He turned a few phrases over in his mind before he began to type -
"When he stared at the computer screen that day, he knew it had come to a breaking point - "....