I was even going to be the editor of a large women’s magazine. How this was to be achieved, I never stopped to think. A career plan was not something that featured highly in our high school guidance classes: We were too busy learning to recognise the incipient signs of communism in everyday life.
So, I changed courses at university and thought that writing tortured poetry about my broken heart after each failed relationship qualified me as a promising writer. I obtained my degree, met the man of my dreams, got married and got a job (no writing involved, creative or otherwise). Still, I was young and there was still plenty of time for me to fulfill my dreams. One day I was going to write.
Fast forward to 20 years later and I just could not find the time or the opportunity to write even one short story or article for a magazine. Life kept happening and stopping me from being all I was sure I still could be. Until I recognized that I was finding excuses not to do the one thing that I thought I was born to do- write. So I sat down in front of first; a piece of paper and later my computer, but nothing would ever come to mind. I could not think of anything to write about. There was no story inside of me after all. Or if there was, it was hiding and I would have to painstakingly pry it out over a long time. Writing was going to be HARD WORK!
Write, they say. Just start writing and it will flow. What about, though? Give me a subject & I will have a go. Give me a deadline and I might be galvanized into action. Better yet, give me the incentive of definite monetary reward and I am sure I could churn something out. But just write? That seems like unnecessary hard work to me; like chopping wood to pass the time.
They also say true writers write because they cannot not write. Well, in that case there’s no hope for me. I want to write so that I can feel a sense of accomplishment, to be recognized for what I write (even if only by a few people) and to be paid money for my writing. But I want to finish it before teatime so I can relax with a cup of tea and half a packet of chocolate biscuits. There has never been a time when I felt that I absolutely have to write or I will perish with unexpressed creativity.
I love doing nothing. I wish there was a career path in doing nothing. I would be a great success. (Yes, I have tried management, but even then they expect you to turn up every day).
Whenever I have a task to complete, I try and finish it as quickly as possible to get it out of the way, so as to contemplate the possibility of an hour or so of doing nothing. This idleness can take the form of anything from napping on the couch in front of the TV or doing Sudoku on the computer. Or thinking - about all the things I am still going to accomplish, one day when I find something I enjoy more than doing nothing.
I am not completely useless, you understand. I hold down a fairly responsible part time job, have raised two children without too much help from nannies and relatives and I run a reasonably organised household. I go to gym and I am somewhat involved in my community. I even belong to that time-honoured institution of quasi-intellectual, wine-and gossip- loving women everywhere: the Book Club.
Yet, I cannot find anything that compares with the lift that takes place in my insides when I look forward to an evening or part of an afternoon with no chores, no responsibilities and no obligations; where I can flop down on the couch and stare vacuously at the television, or read a book that will not necessarily improve my mind in any way.
When faced with the choice between pottering in my garden –and I do love a nice garden - or doing absolutely nothing, the latter will always win. Choosing between filing a tax return or taking a long, soaking bath requires practically no thought at all.
As you can imagine, this situation leads to a considerable amount of inner conflict. I feel I should do more, be more, achieve more, but I lack the incentive and the drive. Let me be honest about this: I am lazy. And I am ashamed of this fact. I always have been and I have tried to hide my noontime naps, excessive Sudoku-playing and other unworthy and unproductive pastimes from friends and family.
Lately, however, I have been wondering whether I am being too hard on myself. We have advanced tremendously over the years in our understanding of human beings; both psychologically and biologically. For example, we now know that the line between male and female is not as clear cut as we always thought. There are homosexual people, transgender people, men trapped in women’s bodies and vice versa. This knowledge has lead to greater understanding of human beings, which is a very good thing.
I believe, however, that I have made a discovery of my own; one that will bring reassurance to many others like me. It will free us from the tyranny of guilt and regret and allow us to embrace our true nature:
I am a sloth, trapped in a human's body.
How do you get motivated to pursue your dreams? Or have you already fulfilled them?
Lets Talk....
I would love to hear your opinion..
Until the next sleepless night,
Christine
