Sigh. It is the middle of June. This is my garden. That tall, green thing is a lettuce plant. It has grown from seeds I put in the ground a year ago. At the beginning of the pandemic. Now, it has decided to grow. And I have done nothing to take care of it. Nor have I decided to harvest it when it would have been at its tastiest. Most of the leaves are now bitter.
It is a metaphor.
However, so is the fact that it is still the middle of June, and most of my garden has been cleared away--except for the grass. If I act this week, I can still get some good harvests before the summer ends. Especially of cucumbers. So I can make my pickles. Which would make me very happy.
Again, all this is a metaphor.
Sigh. Maybe Sundays are not the best days to be writing these posts. Perhaps some time during the week would work better. Actually, writing each day would be the best habit. It would give me a chance to draft ideas, analyze them, rewrite and scrutinize, then finally post something good.
I have a lot of old habits I need to go through and reform. Maybe toss out a few. Like procrastinating. Whatever high or thrill it gave me so many years ago has since worn off. Sure, waiting until the night before to type up a forty-two page novella (it was supposed to be a five-to-seven page short story), ignited a frenzy of creative writing. It earned me the praise of my soon-to-be high school mentor. It was exhilarating. Now, at forty-three, when it comes to my writing, there are no deadlines that require all-nighters. Nothing to kick start the adrenaline that flows from procrastinating. That drive needs to come from somewhere. Sure, the pandemic and FOMO played their part a year ago in resurrecting this blog. Yet, the former is evolving; the latter subsiding. They were never sustainable. Just as these Sunday night procrastination sessions are getting old.
Sigh. My writing habit has to change.
It begins with another old habit, a dear friend of my procrastination. Daydreaming. They make quite the duo. Not in a Batman and Robin kind of way. They do not defeat anything. Instead, they instigate and cause mayhem, by feeding into each other. An idea is born in my mind: a story, a woodworking project, a life decision. A good first step, is writing it down, and establishing an end point and deadline. So simple. I mean, I do not have to end up keeping the initial goal. Just get something down so I can start to work on it. A one sentence summary of a possible short story; a description of a furniture piece; a list of career requirements. Easy, right?
Sigh. Not if my daydreaming has anything to say.
And, it has a lot to say. It enjoys speaking, non-stop. It hates interruptions, even the necessary life stuff. However, it has adapted to those. So, now, while mowing the lawn, or making dinner, it will fire off scenarios that play out in my head. But, when it comes to planning, it refuses to compromise. Instead, it subverts through misdirection. No need to write things done right now, let us imagine all possible angles and paths. ALL of them. And procrastination gets excited, starts to jump up and down. Yeah, yeah, you're analyzing, that's what you're doing. That one likes to rationalize. It also releases endorphins, in order to keep urgency and ambition at bay.
Sigh. They are like two close friends who could never have relationships with any other people. Mostly because they are toxic when they are together, keeping out everyone else. They do not like outsiders, which they perceive as obstacles. Anything strange is attacked, pushed away, or ignored. So, even if I were to take some action, and a difficulty arises (the ending to the story does not work; the tools to make the furniture needs to be repaired; I need to let someone proofread my resume), procrastination and daydream jump right in with their judgements and criticisms, nasty words, and condescending "I told you so's".
Actually, it is a trio. I am the third friend. The one they hang on to, because no one else will listen to them. I endure their antics, because they have convinced me that I cannot exist without them. That no one else wants to be my friend. That their insults are a form of love.
They are abusers and I need to get the fuck out of this relationship.
I need to find new habits, kinder, more helpful ones.
I need to find them sooner rather than later.
Because I deserve better.
Also, I need to stop sighing.
Doing way too much of that in my old age.
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