CROSS-DIMENSIONAL BLASTER BLUES

How I Stay Motivated To Write Everyday

You can’t see the red dot, but you can always feel it

I used to be lazy. Real lazy.

I’d sit alone in my dingy studio flat eating baked beans out of the can, then glance at the time and say “oh gosh would you look at that, I’ve done sweet bugger all today just like every day”, then I’d go to bed.

This was my routine for years. Obviously, I’d go to work in between as well, but I’d trained myself to slip into a semi-comatose state during the hours of Monday to Friday, 9am to 5pm, so that time didn’t really count.

On weekends and holidays, I’d make big plans to get some solid writing done. This novel I’d been working on since 2014 for example that refused to die.

I tried bargaining with myself, taking it slowly:

“Okay buddy, forget about the novel. In fact, delete it. How about you write 500 words today… no, wait, scratch that! One paragraph. Anything you like. Just one. You can do that, right buddy?”

“Sure, I can do that. But am I going to? That’s another thing altogether. I don’t like the pressure you’re applying here if I’m being honest. I’m starting to feel a little intimidated. Perhaps I’ll take the rest of the week off to recuperate.”

And so on until I reached the grave, unaccomplished, unsatisfied, probably with the gravestone reading:

Here lies R P Gibson — he couldn’t be bothered to get back up.

I developed a strategy to make all this easier. Gather close and I’ll tell you my trick, which worked for years and years until it didn’t (which we’re coming to in a moment). Here it is: I thought of my past, present, and future selves as totally different beings.

Isn’t that neat?

When I sat there with beans spilled down my shirt feeling frustrated at my lack of inspiration, I’d just say:

“To hell with it! This isn’t my problem, it’s future me’s problem. And to hell with that guy. He’s a freeloading asshole. Any hard work I put in now will be for his benefit, and his alone! Well, no more!”

Meanwhile, I’d reminisce and think of my past self, a year ago, two years ago, whatever, in an equally pathetic state of laziness and I’d think:

“The selfish prick! If he only put a little effort in I’d be on easy street now. Yeah, that guy really screwed me over. Big time!”

And so on.

This was a fun exercise, and what’s more, it served as a convenient justification for my own self-destructive selfishness.

But I couldn’t do it forever, no matter how much I wanted to.

I was sitting there, happy to allow Youtube to keep auto-playing me videos until the heat death of the universe when there was a stern knock on my front door.

Normally when that happened I’d dive behind the sofa and cower until I was convinced whoever it was knocking was at least three streets away.

But this time something compelled me to open the door. And now I know what was compelling me. It was me. That’s what I saw when I opened the door: me.

I wondered if a neighbour was pranking me by holding a mirror up to the door. It happens. I’m not the brightest. They say dolphins and elephants are smart enough to have self-awareness when seeing their reflection, but sometimes in my dazed state, I have my doubts.

But unlike those other times, this definitely wasn’t my reflection. Like I said: it was me.

“Hello,” I said.

Not me, the other one.

He looked more or less identical to me, except he’d had a haircut this year and looked like he’d slept recently. Plus he was angry. Real angry. I’d never been that angry about anything in my life.

“I’m you from the future,” he said. “There, let’s get that out the way. Now, what’s with all this shit you’ve been talking about me recently?”

“I haven’t been saying anything man,” I said. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Like hell I have,” he said and pushed his way into my flat.

“This can’t be real,” I said, following behind and shaking my head. “I must be dreaming or something.”

The other me turned and slapped me hard across the face.

“I guess not,” I said, holding my stinging cheek.

“Do you really think you’d have the imagination to dream something like this?” he said. “What did you dream of last night? Sitting on the toilet and eating baked beans, something like that?”

“How did you know?”

“Because I’m you. And you’re predictable as hell.”

“Oh shit,” I said, remembering Christmas was around the corner. “Are you here to show me the error of my ways? Which one are you, the ghost of Christmas past, present, or future?”

“I’m the ghost of Christmas Shut-the-hell-up!” he said.

I appreciated my own uniquely witty banter. It was definitely me then. And I was right about him being an asshole too.

“Such a precious thing as life and this is how you choose to spend it?” the other me said. “You know, there are many dead people out there who would love the opportunity to have another go around. Do you really think when your parents conceived you that they wanted this to be how you spent your finite time in the universe? Is this how you want to be remembered?”

“All right, take it easy buddy,” I said, holding up my hands, “or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

I was pretty passive — a human doormat if you will — but even I had my limits.

“You can ask all you want,” the other me replied, narrowing his eyes and clenching his fists. “I’m not going anywhere until I’m finished.”

“Well, come on then!” I said, flapping my arms. “Let’s get this over with. Are you here to tell me how to turn things around or what? Damn it, this is so cliche. What about original ideas, huh? And what about free will? So go on, enlighten me then get the hell out.”

“This ain’t It’s a Wonderful Life, buddy.”

“Oh, I know that,” I said, scooping another spoonful of beans in my mouth. “It’s a Pretty Shitty Life if you ask me.”

“It would be better if you did something!”

“And what am I doing now, doesn’t count as something?”

“This,” the other me said, “is the definition of nothing.”

“Well, what if I don’t want to do something, eh? What if nothing is all I want to do? What if I find life so damned difficult that the luxury of doing nothing in my free time is all I desire, and perhaps all I’ll ever want, and the anticipation of a weekend of nothing is all that gets me through the day?”

“You don’t find it difficult. You’re just a stubborn fool.”

“All right, but what business is it of yours anyway, Mr. Big-Shot Time-Traveller, or whatever you are? Some nerve, coming here uninvited…”

“That’s it!” the other me said, leaning forward and knocking the can of beans out of your hand that I’d absent-mindedly picked up again. “If you don’t sort your life out and do something, you’ll have me to deal with, okay? That’s why I’m here. To give you a little… let’s call it motivation.”

“What kind of motivation? Shoot for the moon and if you miss you’ll land among the stars, that sort of thing? You know that doesn’t make any sense, right?”

The other me said nothing, but reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun unlike anything I’d ever seen before: all shiny and metallic and reflective.

You should’ve seen it. It was neat. Real neat. It had a red laser pointer shining on it and everything.

“It doesn’t matter to me at all, quite frankly,” the future me said, “but it’s so painful to watch. Time is circular, meaning anything that happens in the past has no direct implications on the future, so if I blast you to another dimension (the dead one, for example), that doesn’t affect me in any way. In fact, I’d rather live knowing that my past was gone, rather than think about you living like this, continuing in this way, making a mockery of existence. But I’m willing to give you a chance to turn things around. But just one. This here is a cross-dimensional blaster.”

“A cross-dimensional blaster?” I repeated.

“That’s right, a cross-dimensional blaster. Any time you’re slacking, I’m going to take this here cross-dimensional blaster, get you in my sights, and if nothing changes, that’s it, I’m going to blast you to another dimension! (the dead one.)”

I couldn’t quite imagine how that would work, so he delved into his other pocket and produced his phone, which had a handy picture from Unsplash saved on it:

“Oh, okay,” I said.

Then the future me slowly lowered the sights of the cross-dimensional blaster until it pointed at my forehead. I knew it was pointing at my forehead because I could feel it pointing at my forehead.

“If I pulled the trigger, would this technically be suicide?” the other me asked.

“I dunno, buddy,” I said. “I guess so. But I’d rather you didn’t pull it.”

Then the other me said “Pow!”

And I yelped out and jumped up and fell down and fell for it. What a way to go, I remember thinking.

Of course, when I opened my eyes the room was empty. I was gone. The other me, I mean.

Was that real, I wondered? What was definitely real was the way my heart was beating in my chest, reverberating in my eyes, and thumping in my neck, skull, and anus.

I supposed I’d simply dozed off and the whole thing had been some kind of fever dream. Obviously, I was overstimulated and needed to take it easy for a few weeks. That was all. My mind’s way of telling me to slow down.

But then I began to feel it! The same sensation of the red dot on my forehead: that unmistakable sensation. I felt it passing over my body. The other me was taking aim with his cross-dimensional blaster!

I leapt to a mirror, keeping low, scratching feverishly at my forehead for some reason, looking at my reflection. I couldn’t see the red dot, but I could feel it.

I forward rolled across the other side of the room, leaping for cover behind my sofa and snatching my laptop, expecting to be blasted out of the dimension at any moment. Probably to the dead one. I had to do something, he said, but what?

So I started typing. Well, less typing and more just hitting the keys on my keyboard as quickly as possible.

Before I knew it, words were on a page and a story existed.

This one.

I didn’t feel the red dot disappear until I hit publish. I was in such a panic, I was trying to avoid being blasted out of the dimension.

I hope you understand if there are any typos. I was desperate.

I didn’t have time for Grammarly.

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