Um. Fast forward to April 21, 2013. Oops. What happened to my “21 Days to a Completed Book Proposal” drive and purpose? Whence my motivation (except I don’t want “whence,” I guess I want “whereto.”
Turns out there are myriad other activities that I find to fill up my time BEFORE I ever get around to writing, which is rather inimical to my hopes and dreams and all. It’s a Quadrant III problem–important but not urgent. Or is it Quadrant IV? Seems like maybe we should dispense with the quadrant numbers and either call them by their combo-reference (urgent/important, not urgent/not important, urgent/not important) or come up with more memorable names for them than “Quadrant I” and so forth.
Now the above paragraph contains of course (as most paragraphs do that pass through my keyboard as the muse impels my fingers to type out Deathless Prose) great insight and wisdom but it’s not really ON TASK. As my former boyfriend/current friend Chad is always reminding me, “You need to FOCUS!”
So I’ve been to 29 “churches” now, though one was a synagogue (the Jewish woman I interviewed for this visit kept correcting me when I said “church”–I should include a paragraph or two on the why and wherefore of that semantic nicety), so really, I’m just about plugged in. Though there are some significant gaps in my attendance–no mosque yet, no Hindu temple, no Seventh-day Adventist experience, no yoga interview, no AA meeting visit (not a church, I realize, but for some reason I want to attend one and interview somebody. Really this “writing a book” blah-blah-blah is just a ruse to cover up my essential busybody nature.).
Yep, I a little bit completely missed my “21 Days to Write a Book Proposal” mark, but I’m still inside 21 MONTHS (well past 21 weeks I fear) from inauguration of my effort. So. That’s good, right?
Really, what does self-flagellation profit me? I’m not sure. I must think it’s good to do, because I certainly do it regularly. Daily. Many times daily? I almost wish that I drew blood from myself every time I self-flagellated, or that it bruised me or at least hurt like hell physically, because probably then I’d stop. When the only part of me to take a beating is my spirit, my psyche, my self-concept, well, that sucker is amorphous and invisible and consequently any bruises it receives are inconsequential and deniable. Which is ironic because (and I believe this wholly) what I believe about my own capacity to achieve has a larger impact on my actual capacity to achieve than any other single factor. Hang on a minute–was that sentence difficult to understand? What? A pre-post-publication edit (“pre-post?” oxymoron? I mean “an edit before I publish this post”)? I don’t think so. To test for readability? Not this cowboy. It’s 11 p.m. and I need to shuffle off to the Land of Nod, if you get me.)