For Focus' Sake!

A very distracted man tries to find even a shred of focus or motivation.

Photo by Ivan Evans on Unsplash

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Rick couldn’t write. That was the crux of it.

Nothing worked. Medication, transcendentalism, Do Not Disturb, cocaine…well, that one might have worked, if he could only find a consistent supply!

It’s not my fault! Even Voltaire would crumble with a PS5 in his room. Every Brontë sister would have wasted her life scrolling Instagram.

Which was why Rick rented a co-working space. He paid a pretty penny for it, too. It had a cherrywood desk, a coffee machine, a supportive office chair, and a typewriter.

But he usually did practically nothing in it but drink coffee, spin his chair in circles, and run his fingers over the smooth grain in the wooden desk.

A buzzer sounded. That meant his time was up and some other shmuck got to rent the room til morning.

Time already? Anxiety scored him. It’s not fair—I haven’t written a word!

He hit the intercom to talk to the manager.

“Mark? Look, I've got a request to make. I've got a deadline coming up, and it's important. I can't work from home. I get too distracted there.”

In reality, there was no deadline—his book didn’t even have an agent. But no matter.

“I’ll pay you double for the night,” he continued. “Just refund whoever’s next. Please!”

The wait seemed to last forever. Rick unbuttoned his shirt and fanned himself with it.

“Paul’s a little hesitant,” the manager responded, at last. “He understands... it's just that he’s come all the way here and planned to get a few things done..."

“I’ll give him $100 altogether, how's that sound?”

“And that's not including what you'll owe me.”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

There was another long silence. Rick began to pace. This was a space he could do real work—he was sure of it! If only he didn't have to leave at 7:50pm, right before l’heure d'inspiration struck! He was wired that way: he was a night owl; he didn't come alive until then. It wasn't the fault in the space, but in the timing!

"Rick?"

He rushed to the intercom. "Yes?"

"All right, Paul says that's fine."

Relief. “That's marvelous."

"Uh huh. All right, Rick. Have a productive night."

"Yes, absolutely. I'll get right to it.”

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. His excitement was palpable; it throbbed through him.

He was ready. He could do it this time—write!

I’ll be unstoppable!

The intercom buzzed again.

"Oh, and Rick,” said Mark. “Don’t forget to call your wife to tell her you're not coming home.”

Rick threw down his pen. Damn him!! That was the last thing he wanted to do. That would be the worst thing for his productivity—that would kill it dead, right on the eve of its resurrection!

Months into his marriage, and he hadn’t written a thing. His wife wanted too much of him. She wanted his company in the evenings, which were prime writing hours. She wanted him in bed in the nights, which were second-best writing hours. And she wanted him for breakfast in the mornings, which Rick had heard were meant to be excellent writing hours, and that many writers thrived by writing then!

How was he meant to finish his book under those circumstances?

Begrudgingly, he called. And with each passing moment on the phone, he felt inspiration flee from him like deer from a burning forest.

After he hung up, Rick felt drained. He needed a break. Just one Youtube video and then he could do it…

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When the morning came, Rick felt half the man he'd been. He felt shriveled, worn.

He’d written nothing. Nothing!

He drove home in a daze, to find his wife already gone to church. Rick stalked the halls of his home, staring at the walls, running his hands over the wallpaper fabric, looking at family photos—dead-eyed and swollen.

There was no way to write in these conditions, so he went on his computer. Bad idea. Two hours of reading influencer drama, and Rick was completely depressed.

On his third hour of screen time, he had an idea that shocked him.

He couldn’t seriously believe what he was contemplating—could he actually be about to go through with it?

His wife came home from choir practice, and he hid the screen instinctively.

It’s crazy. But I have no other choice. Not if I want to get this book done.

He opened Google on incognito mode and typed in:

How to get kidnapped?

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Oh, Rick had done plenty of things he was ashamed of, but not this. The only thing that nagged at him was that he hadn’t thought of it before.

Yes, he had arranged for himself to be kidnapped without ransom. He’d paid a pretty penny for it, too. He told the head of the criminal gang that he’d need a desk, pen, and papers—that was it! When did he want it to happen? Soon! How’s this Friday? Fine!

He would be stripped of every distraction—even his dignity, if need be—and forced to work. Then, he would truly be unstoppable.

Getting kidnapped was a delight. It was so exciting: walking on the evening street, having told his wife he was out for a pack of cigarettes; the white van screeching to a halt beside him; two men wearing ski masks handling him roughly…knowing that all distractions were soon to be vanquished!

They took him to a ruined house on the outskirts of town, which the gang used as headquarters. Down in the basement was a labyrinth of rooms, several with dugout pits. It was into one of these that Rick was lowered. They’d outfitted it with a cot, fold-out chair, and table. And a waste bucket. Fine by me!

The gang’s leader called Rick their honored guest. They weren’t used to being hired by their victim, and Rick could tell it flattered them: being involved in a more legitimate enterprise.

They sent down pailfuls of turkey sandwiches and water bottles. He had a sheath of printer paper and a cup of ballpoint pens.

Rick sat down to focus.

For three hours, he traced the pebbled texture of the plastic desk. Then he watched the interesting nature of the packed dirt walls. He could observe the worms crawling through on their baffling business, and he did so for several hours, humming show tunes. Then he took a nap.

On his second day, he knew he couldn’t work in these conditions. There were too many distractions: the surface of the desk was too stimulating; there were too many worms wriggling. And besides, there was a serious lack of ventilation—he felt he was breathing in his own farts.

Rick politely requested to be let out. They brought him up on the next pail.

He played Go Fish with the kidnappers in their lair, deserving at least a little break after his ordeal. He was going to leave; was probably going to go home, even, and try to get back on ADHD meds, even though he’d tried both Adderall and Ritalin already and they messed with his sleep. Sleep was so important for his focus.

He was definitely going to do it!

That was when they nabbed him.

The SWAT team came in through the front door and windows. They came down the stairs in a stampede of tactical gear and shoved Rick and the members of the gang against the walls. Someone’s elbow was in his neck, muffling him when he tried to proclaim his innocence!

There were other holes throughout the lair, with non-paying clientele. It really was a bad situation.

He looked guilty, all right. The investigators had pictures of him meeting the gang with a briefcase of money. They had his Google search history (with highlights such as “pros and cons of kidnapping”). They had him in interrogation for what felt like forever.

It was terribly inconvenient for his work.

Then the trial—blast the trial! It was impossible to find focus during it all. There were so many questions he could barely think. It was the worst week of his life—his wife attended, crying into her handkerchief every day—and he wasn’t allowed to spend even an hour on his book.

Rick was found guilty.

They brought him to San Quentin. The guards gave him a jumpsuit and brought him past rows of prisoners. He had his own little cell at the very end. A bed, a desk, pencils, and paper. A toilet, right in the room. The walls and floor were simple—not distracting at all.

At first he thought—maybe I can focus here!

But no.

It was impossible to focus with the noise. Every time Rick sat down to write a sentence, some blood-curling scream rang out. It seemed every other day someone was getting stabbed, and then the assailant dragged into solitary confinement. Moreover, the toilet flushed constantly of its own accord.

It’s outrageous! Rick thought. I’ve been trying to focus so long I can’t even remember what I’m meant to be focusing on. Is it a novel? A poetry collection? A nonfiction book about trains? Damn this world and its damn distractions!!

Rick paced the cell. He examined his desk with its paper and its pens. He ran a hand over his head. And he decided he’d had just about enough.

I’m going to find focus, and that’s the end of it!

That night, Rick was both motivated and focused. Not on writing his book, but on tying together a mass of pencils with his hair.

The next morning, he found his target—some poor sap in the cafeteria—and stuck him with it, right between the ribs!

The ensuing scuffle was one for the San Quentin history books. It seemed the entire inmate population shoved a fist or fork into the outcome.

Finally, Rick was dragged away, half-bald and bleeding.

He put on a show of resisting, but all the while, he was just trying not to let his satisfaction show.

Solitary is the place! he thought. For sure! Finally—finally!—I’ll get some peace and quiet.

Rick was thrown into a solitary cell with no light, no windows, no toilet—and no desk.

“Wait!” he cried out, desperately. “Hold on! There’s no paper or pens in here!”

The door was slammed in his face.

Rick was left in darkness. He felt for the cot blindly with his hands and crawled beneath the cold, thin blanket.

As he closed his eyes, he dreamed of a perfect room. It would have everything he needed and more: a cherry wood desk, a coffee machine, a supportive office chair, and a typewriter.

If only he had all that…

I would be unstoppable!

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