A long time ago, I caught the not-doing-a-damned-thing-itis. I thought it was because I was disorganized. That I might be able to improve my methods and habits through the use of cell phones, Google Calendar, day planners, journals, sheepskins, and tea leaf divining. These would dictate my schedule, and I would adhere to it no matter what.
Well, when a text message from Google tells me it's time to write while I'm on the highway, or while shooting 12 year old gamers in their little e-faces, it proved to be bullshit. Organization has never been my problem. Having the right set of technological hoo-haa to drop reminders was never the issue. I'm the issue. Always have been, always will be.
I'm done with it all. Action item lists, management schemes, reminders that pop up just millimeters from my twitter feed, and so on. They don't work for me. They probably don't work for you either. Here's a plan that works: Today, you will write 1,000 motherfucking words, and be done with it. It doesn't matter when, or if it fits in some preconceived schedule. The goal isn't concerned if I'm hungry or tired or if there is a switch blade sticking out of my twitching leg. It has to be done, it will be done. Chair, ass, production.
There is no magic in work; no pompous divinity that writers can somehow channel but the laymen can't. Action is advancement, and that is all you are entitled to. Advance the word count, move closer to the 10,000 hour theory of mastery, and have a stack of tangible product.
I'll take work over magic any day. This isn't Hogwarts, and unless you've got some goods under that robe to show me, get the fuck out and finish something.