Recently, I was interviewed about my practice for cultivating personal or professional growth on a daily basis.
There's a lot I do — and don't do — that could have served as a good answer to the question. But I selected my daily mind clear out in the form of "intentional boredom."
The idea first came to my mind after reading an article on, of all things, how live theater (one of my favorite things in the whole world) serves as a vital historical and cultural reference point. What did people used to DO in moments of forced inactivity before cell phones and social media? Waiting at doctor's offices, sitting on the train, even just waiting to cross the street.
I began my own practice a bit by accident. Remaining for days at the hospital bedside of a loved one meant my ability to do much was impossible, both because the opportunity wasn't there (I had no books to read, no notebooks to write in, cell service was limited and spotty) and because my deer-in-the-headlights-sleepless mental state hardly promoted focus.
After a few days of unintentional boredom, my mind kicked into overdrive. Almost all at once, so many images, ideas, narratives, phrases, etc flowed over me in a speed and crescendo that mimicked a river-tossed canoe. I borrowed a pen from the nurse station and captured as many as I could on paper towels from the lavatory dispenser.
Later, that days-long experience struck me as the perfect way to loose my mind from the controls I normally shackle it in, the outside influences and information overload that consume and attack.
First thing in the morning, I sit up in bed, hold a mug of coffee, lean against the headboard, and let whatever comes to me come. Just sitting quietly and doing...nothing. No reading, no scrolling, no music, no nothing. At first, I had to fight to the death to keep my to-do list at the door. Then, I got itchy to at least pick up my journal.
But eventually, after weeks and (now) years, intentional boredom is a practice I crave.
The consequence of this forced boredom is always an explosion of ideas I couldn't have purposely come up with had I applied active force. Clearing a space (and guarding it) for my mind to think and imagine ONLY what it wants to think and imagine creates the necessary freedom for making up its own games and rules.
Similar to meditation yet completely different. Instead of controlling my mind, I let it play. Let it show me what it can do with no input or desire but its own.
We can often most effectively edit and revise our work when we remove ourselves as much as possible, create a space in which we see our drafts anew, with objectivity. Why? Because we're usually too darn close.
You can't read the label if you're inside the jar.
Create some arbitrary rules for this game in advance. Maybe you'll cut all adjectives and adverbs. Alternate one short/one long sentence throughout. Delete a minor character or change the character into a completely different kind of personality. Change the point of view or the chronology, maybe rewrite past tense into present. Fuse characters or scenes together into one, or vice versa.
Take your draft and apply the rules without question.
Then compare the versions.
You'll likely not want to incorporate many of the alterations. But you'll also expand your view of your work, sneak up on it to see it from a fresh angle, and find many places for improvement you wouldn't have otherwise seen.