Yesterday evening I wanted to write a post about why I didn’t manage to write as many posts as I would like. You know the kind of thing; you see them all over the web, posts about how life gets in the way for whatever reason. We have all (I suspect) been there.
I didn’t get beyond typing the words “Building Blocks” before life did the life thing, and got in the way. Yes, I personalise life, and imagine it as a creature with nothing better to do than lie in wait so it can spoil my plans. It’s pretty stupid when you get right down to it.
Anyway, things had to be done, and, to be fair, they had to be done that very night because there was a genuine deadline to meet in order to keep a promise. Then the supermarket delivery van turned up and food had to be unpacked and checked and the refund on the milk organised. Then one of the offspring skyped me and we had a good time talking about life and stuff, and I thought “Well, I’d rather talk to my offspring than be typing to the empty swirling vortex of yon t’Interweb.” Then I went to bed happy in the glow of an evening spent productively and for the benefit of myself and others
I realised it was true, that I would rather talk to family and friends, and I take that as a good sign indicating that I am not a complete sociopath. However, all this morning I have been itching to type the blog.
I will share a personal revelation with you. In my deepest, secret-est heart, I hope this means that writing regularly is beginning to get under my skin. Do you know what I mean? I have always wanted to write more, sure, but I let life prevent me. Recently though I made a conscious effort to write every day, even if it was nonsense, for 15 minutes. It seems to be working for me. I’m not yet writing every day, but I am writing much more often.
Recognising this has made me feel quite good because I have proved I can achieve something I want to do. It has also made me look yet again (yawn, here we go) at why I still don’t write every day. You see, I did things to stop the excuses. Not only might I write on a computer, but I also bought myself a decent size journal to write in, as well as a decent pen. I like to have a pen I find comfortable; it helps me write more smoothly. I am very touch-oriented. The journal has big enough pages to make writing easy but is small enough and light enough to carry with me. It’s my Goldilocks Journal, “just right”. I sometimes manage to scribble in it on the train or even bus, and certainly in a café or a hotel room. Yet still I don’t always write every day.
And the reason on most occasions is that I am being sociable with friends or colleagues or family. When I am away for work, if a colleague is also staying over, we have dinner together because being away from home is a lonely thing. If no one else is staying, I will usually meet a friend or an offspring who lives near-by. When I am at home, I behave outrageously by indulging in conversation with my Significant Other, or go out with neighbours, or talk to offspring either in the house or over the wild and wacky web-tubes.
Being a sociable human contradicts how I see myself, which is as an irritable, work-obsessed, anti-social project manager. However, it may also stop me from becoming a world famous author and winning the Nobel Prize for Literature. (Actually, it’s more likely it will save the world from more poorly crafted books; we have suffered enough, and yes, I am looking at you both, Dan Brown and E L James). But that is fine with me, because in fact these things are most important to me: love and friendship.
It just means I won’t finish that manuscript as quickly as I thought.