Dear M,
Whenever we find that we are unable to do something that others did or do, we try to find excuses as to why we're different from them.
By now you have figured out that I am unable to manage my time and I am trying to place the blame on someone else. Yes, that is a good summary. The only reason I am able to write (almost) every day is that all good writers used to do it. If they could do it, I should do it. There is no other way.
But the last week had been crazy busy again. I am not quite clear on whether I had my meals on time, heck, whether I had them at all, and my sleep has been fitful and ill-timed. I think I did a whole chunk of my work in sleep. Anyway in that chaos, I did not write one day. Someone was at my neck every hour, and I just couldn't. And today, the race continues as soon as the thirty minutes allotted to this blogpost is over. On such days there is a severe battle between my better sense and my other sense. I don't know which is which, though. One told me that I need my sleep and that the writing can be postponed for a couple of days till this madness was over. One (the same or different, I have no idea) told me that this madness won't be over for a while so better write while I still could. One told me that if you can sit up and do something, better finish that damn work - after all, you get paid for it. You have some responsibility to the people who pay you. One told me that they pay me doesn't mean that I have to kill myself to earn that money. One told me to think of all the writers who did their work and still spent an hour or so every day to write.
That stopped me in my tracks. The famous writers. They could write every day, no matter the situation. Work, festivals, guests, family, health, almost nothing would deter them. If they could do it, why can't I? My tired sense, before it fainted, said that the famous writers of the last century did not have to work day in and day out. They worked fixed hours a day. They did not slog over computers and were not expected to go home and complete the work and send it today. They did not work like I did. I guess. Their work is not like mine. Their principles and discipline will not work for me. My time management will be different from theirs.
A lot of reasons, excuses. The bottom line? I didn't write. Now my time is up and I have to rejoin the race before someone figures out I have been wasting my time, again. A waste of time for them, a precious piece of writing for me.
Love.
Whenever we find that we are unable to do something that others did or do, we try to find excuses as to why we're different from them.
By now you have figured out that I am unable to manage my time and I am trying to place the blame on someone else. Yes, that is a good summary. The only reason I am able to write (almost) every day is that all good writers used to do it. If they could do it, I should do it. There is no other way.
But the last week had been crazy busy again. I am not quite clear on whether I had my meals on time, heck, whether I had them at all, and my sleep has been fitful and ill-timed. I think I did a whole chunk of my work in sleep. Anyway in that chaos, I did not write one day. Someone was at my neck every hour, and I just couldn't. And today, the race continues as soon as the thirty minutes allotted to this blogpost is over. On such days there is a severe battle between my better sense and my other sense. I don't know which is which, though. One told me that I need my sleep and that the writing can be postponed for a couple of days till this madness was over. One (the same or different, I have no idea) told me that this madness won't be over for a while so better write while I still could. One told me that if you can sit up and do something, better finish that damn work - after all, you get paid for it. You have some responsibility to the people who pay you. One told me that they pay me doesn't mean that I have to kill myself to earn that money. One told me to think of all the writers who did their work and still spent an hour or so every day to write.
That stopped me in my tracks. The famous writers. They could write every day, no matter the situation. Work, festivals, guests, family, health, almost nothing would deter them. If they could do it, why can't I? My tired sense, before it fainted, said that the famous writers of the last century did not have to work day in and day out. They worked fixed hours a day. They did not slog over computers and were not expected to go home and complete the work and send it today. They did not work like I did. I guess. Their work is not like mine. Their principles and discipline will not work for me. My time management will be different from theirs.
A lot of reasons, excuses. The bottom line? I didn't write. Now my time is up and I have to rejoin the race before someone figures out I have been wasting my time, again. A waste of time for them, a precious piece of writing for me.
Love.
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