People regularly let their pasts dictate their lives, but how many of you let your future dictate your life?
I’m particularly bad for this, and I’m not sure if it’s one of those things that’s weird and unique about me, or if other people actually share this ridiculous problem. Feel free to let me know!
The issue goes like this: I’ll be trying to accomplish something, but a particular facet of my immediate future makes it extremely difficult to accomplish this task. Let me give an example… When my husband and I were still living in our old duplex, we had let the basement get ridiculously messy. There were cardboard boxes everywhere, old furniture that needed to be thrown out, and even the stuff we were storing down there was just plain all over the place. I must have tried several dozen times to build up the gumption to go down there and straighten the place out, but I never managed to convince myself to do it. Why? Because at the time we were looking houses, hoping to buy. Every time I would try to convince myself to clean the basement, all I could think was that soon enough we would be moving, and all the stuff down there would get packed into boxes anyway. In other words, I couldn’t be arsed to put in the effort knowing that it might have been effectively pointless.
Does anyone else know what I’m talking about?
I’m feeling that way right now as well. I recently got word that I’m being offered my job at the mill back once the sale is finalized and the place gets up and running again. Putting aside my feelings on that particular subject and whether or not I’ll actually end up back there, knowing that the possibility is there is making it exceptionally difficult to write. The thing is, I know that I can’t write while I’m working. I just can’t manage to work in the time. Eight hours (or more) of work, plus seven or so hours of sleep, plus meals, showers, dealing with baby stuff, errands, and household chores, and I’m lucky if I get ten minutes to myself. Knowing that, I’m finding it very hard to write now, because that nagging little voice in my head is telling me I’ll never finish my novel by the time the mill starts (estimated August), so there’s no point in bothering to work anymore.
Does that make any sense?
It’s a stupid attitude, and one that’s plagued me for quite a long time. I don’t know why my brain works this way – you’d think I’d be motivated to write harder to try and finish before my time gets taken away from me – but it does and I can’t help it.
That said, I do want to finish this damn novel, so if anyone wants to perform a localized lobotomy on whatever part of my brain causes this insane way of thinking, please give me a call.