I’m struggling. I have been on my new schedule—working for The Man two-and-a-half days each week and for myself the rest of the time—for five weeks now and I am finding it next to impossible to prioritize, to focus, to be disciplined. I have so many things on my plate that I choose, instead, to eat off the floor. Really, I have no idea what that means but it seemed like the right thing to write. And given that the right thing to write has been eluding me lately, I figured I’d write it. Wait…this is becoming an Escher painting.

That I am unfocused has less to do with a lack of inspiration than it does the many distractions I am, admittedly, allowing into my workspace.  I suffer an abundance, a constant flow, of incoming noise and shutting it off is proving to be a task greater than cleaning up an oil spill. Sure, I put a containment dome on my iPhone but then there’s Facebook. I put a containment dome on Facebook and messages hurl forth from my email. I put a containment dome on my email and there are groceries to be purchased and a filthy bathroom that needs scrubbing.

Write a post? A column? A review? A book? Though Barbara DeMarco-Barrett is trying to convince me otherwise, I still indulge the I-can’t-start-now-I-only-have-15-minutes mindset. It’s a hard habit to break. After all, spin class is starting at noon and I have to prepare.

Spin seems to be the only place I go these days where I have no problem shutting out the too-many creativity-sucking distractions. But it became clear to me yesterday that my problem of being incapable of eliminating the extraneous bullshit isn’t unique.

At yesterday’s class, there were three women perched on bikes at the front, pedaling like they were on a flat country road, ho-hum, engaged in a discussion loud enough to be heard over the pounding drone-like music. Of course, if  you can talk during a workout, you are not working hard enough. I picked up my effort on their behalf, hoping some of my dripping sweat would spray in their direction. During cool down, another girl made a phone call. It must have been an emergency situation—perhaps her roommate couldn’t find her beach towel, perhaps her boyfriend needed to know she’d just finished spin class—because why else would you make a phone call while in a class of any kind unless there were an urgent need? And then there was the guy at the back of the room waiting to use the punching bags, pacing this way and that in his knee-length shorts and a grey t-shirt with the sleeves cut off in such a manner as to reveal his entire rib cage and waist, alternately talking on his cell phone and listening to his iPod.

I think it’s official. We, as a society, have not only perfected the art of ruining the planet, but we have a fairly complete inability to be alone with our thoughts. Generally speaking, this is bad. Very bad. And for me, in particular, as it pertains to my writing, it is exceedingly dangerous.  I have been given the incredible and lucky opportunity of time, of extra daylight hours, and I have to figure out how to use it efficiently. I must become more adept at compartmentalizing the noise necessary for my work, and tuning out everything else. Like, yesterday. I’d ask for tips on how best to do this but I think the only way is to just do it. There is no other route. Is there?