Inside Hue: Jake Johnson - Where is My Mind? (Part Two)

Inside Hue: Jake Johnson - Where is My Mind? (Part Two)

This is part two of an article that first appeared in our pilot issue of Hue Magazine: Outset. To purchase a copy of Hue, click here

I need more coffee. Get up and refill. Swallow the coffee and let the bitterness remind me of how I’ve washed away my potential. Sit back down and stare at the cursor. Blink. Blink. Blink.

It’s 5:45am. Fingers hover over the keyboard. Almost ready. Sigh. Open the email from the editor and read again.

‘Issue Concept: ‘Outset’ explores the origin of ideas behind self- initiated works. Personal or studio projects have always featured in the studio culture of most creative practices and work output of freelancers. Whether a brief respite from client briefs or an opportunity to strengthen the portfolio, the inspiration behind any self-initiated concept has to come from somewhere.’

Fear and loathing wash over me. Why the hell would they ask me to do this? What have I ever done that’s interesting? Writing is so goddamned boring. Chastise self for using the Lord’s name in vain.

Still, this could be good. Sounds like this magazine is going out to all sorts of important creatives at all sorts of important agencies. It could be a good opportunity for me. That’s ‘an opportunity to strengthen the portfolio,’ right? Do I have the time? Why did I commit to this? I could be sleeping.

‘Stop pimping your writing.’

Fine. I’ll treat it like a ‘brief respite from client briefs.’ I start spitting out words on the screen. It’s 6am. Delete everything I’ve written. Look at Twitter to see if there’s anything interesting. There’s not. Get some more coffee.

My three-year-old wanders in. He wants cereal, but ‘dry, not with milk,’ so he can watch TV and eat in the living room. I tell him no. He throws a tantrum. I get him some dry cereal in a bowl and turn on Mickey Mouse Club. He doesn’t want this. I turn on a movie and sit back down to write.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

My older son comes in. It’s 6:30am. I say, ‘You’re not supposed to be up till seven.’

’But Dylan is up.’

Fair enough. ‘Get a banana and let Dad write.’ I add, ‘Please.’

Look back at the screen. My blood is boiling a bit. This has not gone the way I planned, but I need to write.

Where do I start? How can I come off well? What would be interesting?

I start in with wax poetic, but it feels like I’m back in freshman comp. Sit back and breathe. Why am I doing this? There’s no answer, just compulsion.

Where do I start? I turn on Drake (again), and my fingers float over the keyboard. I finally begin typing. 

‘There’s nothing more boring than a writing project.’

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