I am bad at many things.
I am bad at schedules. I love schedules, in theory. I like having structure. That’s why I like academia: there’s a rhythm to it, a set amount of things for you to do in order to become better. Set me exercises! Set me readings! This is also why I like planning, quite apart from the added bonus of putting stickers and washi tape all over things and making them pretty. And I think this is why I like video games: you do this and you do that and wham, you LEVEL UP. You get sweet new gear. You kill bigger dragons.
But I’m bad at it. (Except for in video games, because a video game marries structure to story. Add food and occasional sleep and that’s me happy for life, basically.) I can write myself out a schedule, and then I’ll watch three hours of youtube instead and utterly fuck everything up, and I’ll feel a little guilty about it, but mostly won’t care.
What do I want? Well, I want to be in print somewhere. That’s what writers want, right? Fame and fortune whilst also being a recluse? You get to be respected as an eccentric and also buy as many books as you want. So, I want to be in print. There are two things I can do: send pieces to magazines, and sent query letters to agents. I am very bad at doing these things. I tend to send out a couple of pieces a year, in January and again in August or thereabouts when I feel a sudden surge of motivation. I have never sent a query letter.
“You should do that”, says Superego. Ego, in response, lets out a high-pitched whining sound. (Id points out that there’s a great new Let’s Play on youtube and also I should play 21 straight hours of Skyrim.) Why is my reaction to Things I Should Be Doing to whine? I enjoy writing. Sending things out, yes, may well end in rejection after rejection, which is disheartening and results in no progress when I should totally be getting XP for it. Yes I can spend six hours trying to get through the same area on Dark Souls, but at least I might get a couple of levels out of it. But if I don’t send things out, there is no chance of making progress. So send things out, self, you never know, you might succeed.
But whiiiiiiiiiine. Why don’t I want to? Am I afraid of failure? I suspect I may be more afraid of success. Why would anyone be afraid of success? I don’t know. What is wrong with me. Maybe it’s just about fearing change. I am very bad at change. I mean, when things actually do change, I deal with it pretty well. I can be practical when I have to be. But when it’s a lurking amorphous mass on the horizon, when it’s change the concept and not an actual change, my lizard brain freaks out.
“It’s Saturday,” says Superego. “You need to write a blog post.” “Lol, no,” says Id. “There is wine and also, video games.” But I want you all to recognise that last Saturday I actually posted something, instead of ignoring it in favour of wine and video games. And I was sorely tempted, let me tell you. But I posted something, because poor New York Sour gets neglected, and I feel bad about that. Poor story.
More than anything, there is so much to read and, it seems, so little time to read it in. Torschlusspanik. There is too much to do and so little time, and I panic and do nothing. There is too much to do in a day and so little time, so instead of doing a little I waste my time worrying about it and watch things or read twitter or stare blankly into space.
I am bad at being productive. I am bad at managing time. I am bad at keeping to schedules. I am bad at not just setting goals but pursuing them properly.
But it’s OK. I recognise what I am bad at, so I know what needs work. Now all that remains is to actually do it.