A bit of hard-earned wisdom: there is no downtime when going ponytail.
You’ve got to eat, drink, sleep follicle extension. It barely leaves time for the day job. Namely, internet abuse. Seriously, call out the parental controls. The siren song of the marginally diverting is killing me. As an adherent to the gulag school of the creative process [stare at blank page, think, struggle, sweat, repeat] the web is a sly parasite. Lets see, today I watched YouTube covers of the Bon Iver catalog, checked useless early round results from Flushing Meadows, and watched a slide show on shipping container architecture. In other words, I hate myself. And, worse still, hate imagining some net-evangelist media guy turning virtual cartwheels on my account. Fortunately, tomorrow is tomorrow. I will focus and write till my fingers seize and blood trickles from the ear lobes. In fact, the very thought of the new me makes me want to go Bret Michael’s bandana on my increasingly outlaw mane. Tell me, search engine, do you feel lucky?
Note to clients: Not to worry, all browsing lands billing-free in that timesheet safe haven called “skill development”. That, plus, I’m never, ever going to do it again forever.
[Jim Carey is a CD at NORTH]