Attitude.

Deploying SKILL….  Keep a log, whatever it looks like.

(Should be putting this in the Playbook for Content, and I will, but quickly noting here, for now…)

10:07, meeting done and my thoughts are everywhere.  Thinking in terms of deliverables, and inventory.  I love it.  Excited and a bit nervous, feeling not so much pressured but that there is a mark I need to hit.

Just thinking of it like Quota, again.  Feeling myself self-pressure into actuation.  Maybe I should head out for a run.  Haven’t gone out in way too fucking long.

30/60/90 map for new hires, the first project.  If they do well after each mark, there is a direction.  If not, then there is another…

Nothing philosophical, all tangible, actual, mechanical.  Changing the way I think.  And training this day’s MM on how to navigate and produce in this role.  Consumer.Sales.Trainer.

Three dimensions, make them tangible.  WORK… work more.  Don’t stop.

First though, calm down.  Give yourself a minute.  A minute for YOU.

ZEN.  Needed.  Why are some things so complicated??

Not thinking about it.

Produce content.  With eyes closed I see travel, stories, helping people find their dream job, or create it, whatever it looks like.

I start with myself, but I’m much of the way there, with the Company as a partner, platform, launchpad if you would.

10:20… should get out.  Put on running character.  How many miles… who fucking knows.

Changing mind… weights instead.  And later.

Procrastination.  Telling myself it’s justified with hot warm and humid it is on the second floor.  And maybe I’m right or wrong but not caring presently…

Air thick enough to row a boat in, all projects feel like their wearing weight jackets. 

I scroll, I fidget, I convince myself that reorganizing pens is urgent business.  Important, so fucking important.

Deeply I’m cognizant of what’s happening: the stall, the dodge, the great slow waltz of avoidance.  It’s ridiculous, really—how much energy I spend not doing the thing.   RUNNING.

God.DAMN.It.

Still, in the quiet moments, there’s an odd gratitude in catching myself mid-fib.  A chance to laugh at the absurdity of my own excuses. 

Maybe that’s progress.

 Not perfection, not heroic productivity, but awareness.  Fuck it, I’ll take it.  Because even procrastination, named and admitted, feels a little less powerful.  And maybe that’s enough to force a writer forward.