Fragments of a Process: Paintball Writing, Soup-Making, and the Myth of the Perfect Plan

More than a week.

I remember once, someone told me, “If you’re a writer—write! Every day, no matter what.”

Umm. I don’t manage that right now.

Life isn't linear, but in splashes of colour!

Do you know those people who have everything in perfect order (or at least appear so)?

The apartment—in order.

Private life—in order.

Business—in order.

A perfectly conducted checklist.

They make step-by-step plans with exact timelines. And then they execute them exactly. It seems as if life spares them challenges. Or is it a gene? This ability to function like a high-efficiency machine despite everything? Or maybe it’s perfectionism leading quietly to burnout—though of course, no one would know.

Well. I’m a lot of things. But clearly, not that kind of person.

The way I function—whether I like it or not—is not like a sniper aiming precisely at a target, ice-cold and emotionless, hitting the bullseye in one elegant shot.

Nope.

I shoot—or execute—more like a goofy paintball player.

I aim, I shoot, and color splashes in every direction imaginable (and unimaginable).

My hair might end up with green highlights. The tree beside me gets red spots like Pippi Longstocking with rubella. I worry about my performance, feel embarrassed because I don’t really know how to do it right.

And then I marvel at the strange, beautiful shapes my indecent shooting has created.

At least I don’t kill or harm anyone with it.

It’s a bit like this whole enlightenment thing.

People who walk a spiritual path sooner or later bump into a “Guru”.

Someone who says things like:

“Sadness isn’t rational, it isn’t a natural response, and it can’t ever help you... Sadness is the war with what is. It’s a tantrum. You can experience it only when you're arguing with God. When the mind is clear, there isn’t any sadness.” UFF.

This quote was posted critically by Jeff Foster (@lifewithoutacentre—credits to this marvellously human, humble guy), and it resonated deeply.

Yes, I’ve stumbled on such words too—in books, in lectures.

At first, they’re inspiring. “Wow, these people—they’ve got it. They’re free from [insert your greatest personal struggle].”

But something inside starts to feel off.

You begin to ask: Is this emotionless state really the truth? Is it even desirable? Is this perfection we’re striving for just another bypass?

And today—since my letters went mostly to Daniel, who himself is seen as a spiritual teacher (he hates the word Guru, for him it’s more “Adios, Guru”)— I’d say:

Even the precise sniper is a human being.

He shits. He gets sick. He dies one day.

And probably we’ll never know how many attempts it took to hit with what now looks like effortless precision.

What I’m talking about here is not just writing—but everything that surrounds it.

Life.

Birthing a book (Rebelleheart) is not just demanding—it’s wildly complex.

If I had known how many steps were involved, how many things I’d need to consider or research or ponder—I might have quit before starting.

Now, I’m enjoying the ride. Even though, in my case, it’s a chaotic one.

Let me draw you a picture:

Guess how many tabs are open in my browser right now?

72 SEVENTY-TWO! I just counted. I’m speechless.

What are they?

Canva (various cover ideas, mockups, manuscript layout), ActiveCampaign (which I’ll likely ditch and do everything in my website builder), Amazon KDP, Amazon Author Central, Facebook, Instagram, Goodreads, BookBub, several agency and editor sites, blogs like “What is a beta reader and why you need one?” or “The different stages of editing”, my webmail, ChatGPT...

I intentionally wrote that in one long sausage. Because it is a sausage.

Or a wild soup?

That’s how I move forward. Like someone throwing ingredients into a soup pot. In the middle of sprinkling pepper, I remember the thyme. I stop mid-pepper, grab the thyme. Then Nico asks me something. By the time I answer, I’ve forgotten if I added enough thyme. The carrots lie on the board, glowing orange, whispering, “Take me! Take me!”

Like Rebelleheart is a memoir in fragments, my life—and how I function—feels fragmented too, right now.

Sometimes I like it. I thrive in it, feel like a gifted juggler.

Sometimes it stresses me. This all-too-familiar feeling of not being able to do or achieve anything the normal, linear way.

This wild mix of emotions, states, and movements—it’s part of being human.

And that’s what I’m relaxing into. That’s what I follow.

No matter how non-linear, unorthodox, or inexplicable it is.

Stay tuned, even if my writing is on and off...

And you may visit Jeff @ https://www.facebook.com/LifeWithoutACentre