What the fuck do retirees do? Presumably, I am going to live for another 50 years, or more, if modern medicine's claims are anything to go by. Not that I hold out much hope for that, with the current political climate. Sure, you can live until you are 150 years old, but it will cost you your life savings, all of your assets and your first born. Not that I have retired, despite what Sam may be telling people. I am just holding that up as a yard stick - or should that be metre stick? How all the time, set your own agenda? I have changed jobs, that is all I have done, slipped into my chosen career, the one that has always been waiting for me. But, these days of doing what I like are really hard. I work better with time schedules and deadlines. Give me a date to write to and I'll get the job done.
And I know I am just angsty because my writing isn't going so well. I've written a few short stories this year. And I have one in progress at the moment, about a piano being dropped on a graffiti artist, but it is hard work. It is not all sitting at your desk with a cup of tea and hey presto. It is like having your blood drained. Is it any wonder that I'll review blogs from 6 years ago, or read social media until my brain is fried, or double check that every bill has been paid, or offer to have lunch with every person I know, except that I am fairly anti social so there are only a handful of friends I would have lunch with before I'll sit down behind that computer screen.
I remember I was at uni and I was failing screen writing. I still maintain that the whole concept of the 3 act structure was not taught to us at the beginning of the subject, which left us all floundering. I'd handed in this piece of drivel and our lecture said that it was no good, but fortunately for me, I wasn't the only one. The lecturer realised that she'd fucked up and she gave us intense script writing remedial and said we had a week's extension to hand in a replacement piece, if we felt so inclined. As luck would have it, a friend's son hanged himself in a barn and I was privy to the relative's grief who discovered him, be it second hand, once removed, as told to me by a 3rd party. And over that weekend I wrote a whole script called Killing the Young and I got a distinction for that subject. My lecturer suggested I put the script in for funding, which, of course, I never did. My point is, that I had to get it done, I had a week's extension, no more time would be allocated, I had to get it done. And I did, from nothing, no time to piss about, I had to do it.
My point is, how do you manufacture that drive? I don't have an inferiority complex to over come, I don't have horrible parents I have to prove something to, I'm not, exactly, penniless and need to fight off the wolves at the door. Although, just recently, I realised I am staring down the mantel of failed writer to my social group, as all my friends love my writing and have always expected great things from me, which I am not delivering on. Here lies the remains of Christian Fletcher... such potential never realised. Maybe that will do it, get me inspired.
And I know I am feeling a little house bound due to the constant rain for the last few days (even if I know that is just an excuse before I have even finished writing the sentence) And that I need to get outside and do some exercise before I end up being a viable option for the remake of Who's Eating Gilbert Grape.
It is not as if I can ever look at my work and be objective. It is very hard to read a story I have written and thing, gosh that is good. I only ever see the flaws, I only ever see the shortfall between what I wrote and what I was trying to write. This doesn't exactly inspire confidence in myself. The only exception to this is time. I can pick up something I wrote quite a few years ago and think, well, that is pretty good. Often followed by the thought, did I write that? But anything more immediate, I only see the faults.
Anyway, that is my rant, which is really just a distraction from putting on my runners and going walking. How do I make writing the distraction?
I should do what I decided to do when I was drifting off to sleep last night, worrying about my lack of achievements, and that is join the writing association, the subscription for which I let got a year, or so, ago. And find out if The Writer's Market Place has a new addition, or if it is online, or whatever? Get some short stories together and start sending them off. At least the tinniest hint of achievement may inspire me somewhat.
And back to the time frame concept, Sam will be home for lunch around midday, maybe half passed, it takes me an hour to do my exercise, it is now 10.50am, I'm on the clock and it is pushing me along, I can feel it. How do you manufacture that pressure to get on and do other things?
Buddy just exhaled, put his head between his paws and gazed at me with his big brown eyes, with a big sigh, as if to say, Not this again.
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