Sometimes the best laid plans go terribly awry.
Liz asked for my help! Can you believe it? I failed to mention on the previous letter titled Beautiful Conversations that Liz asked for my help. Or rather I pounced on the idea as soon as she mentioned she was having difficulty with an assignment thing. I practically begged her to ask me for help. And sadly I really didn’t think she’d take me up on my offer since she happened to stress how her sister-in-law is a teacher. I practically took that as “qualified teacher trumps lonely writer slash blogger girl”. But lo and behold she actually asked for my help and we happened to make plans for yesterday. But unfortunately she cancelled on me right at the last-minute.
Now, any other day that would cool, I have tons to keep me busy, but, ugh, yesterday? Why did she have to cancel yesterday! My parents had a day off work which entails both of them lingering around the house like zombies looking for brains to consume and it was supposed to work out that I wouldn’t be around to witness nor fall as victim! And I even cleared out my schedule, worked furiously overtime over the weekend to get myself prepared and up to date so I could spend the day at her place. But no, sadly it just wasn’t meant to be and that meant I was stuck at home with the parents, which also translates to finding company with my thoughts. And in all that alone time one thought kept nagging and plaguing me. And that one lone little thought was my manuscript and how time has seemed to devour it into oblivion.
But I shouldn’t blame time, this one is all on me and my Aquarian tendencies to procrastinate like no other.
I don’t know how many years it has actually been since I set out down this road. Four or five maybe? Four or five years too long anyway. I think I actually began about four years ago, meticulously planning and penning ideas for my novel but kept putting off actually beginning working on my manuscript. Waiting for the perfect moment to carry such an undertaking. A perfect setting that would see me seated for hours and days and even months on end, completely immersed in the story and the need to give it life. Yet there it sat, idle on my laptop for another two years. Locked away but not forgotten in a folder on my desktop, staring at me every time I opened up my MacBook but patiently awaiting my return. A return that took two damn years, but a return no less. And that was last year, when my parents happily ventured off to Europe for the summer and I virtually had the house to myself. It wasn’t my dream, prefect setting but it definitely was very much ideal and I did make some headway. Only just, but I did venture into a chapter or two. And I am so ashamed to admit that. And worse still, from this day on I am yet to make any more progress.
Almost a year after.
And this “perfect” setting of mine? It’s a home office, in my own place. A room with a desk angled next to a window and opposite a large bookcase to house my prized possessions. A wall with clippings of scenes and imagery that relates to and inspires my work. A big comfy chair to lean back into while by fingertips busily pound away at the keyboard. And of course another cushy chair for my sidekick to lounge in while she awaits me to finish up and lavish attention on her.
That is what I’ve been waiting for, this dream room where I can be at one with my thoughts and where I can just splay them wherever I need them to be so they are within eye shot. Not have to worry about cleanliness and order until necessary because it’s my own damn space and no one can use that tired old line, “this is my house, you play by my rules” to fold me into submission. But all this waiting around has cost me. And sure it will be a sight to behold when the dream does come into reality, but I suppose the real question will be just how motivated I’ll truly be when such things come to pass and whether or not procrastination again takes the reins. The fact remains that time has passed.
Years have passed, and I’ve gotten nowhere.
And where does time go? Screw wanting to know the meaning of life. I want to know why time just feels like it’s slips between your fingers with every passing day. I mean we’re almost in June. That means half way through the year and for me that means another six month of disappointment and wasted opportunity. And regrettably it also means I am six months closer to the possibility of 2014 being just like the rest. Another failed year in my eyes. And no matter how much finger-pointing and blaming I want to do, ultimately it comes down to me and this vision of perfection. That is my problem. Some idolised fantasy of a fabulous writer living in a townhouse with her sidekick drinking a glass or two of wine and typing away merrily. I don’t need to wait for that and I should just be doing it. And what is even more crazy is that I am full of ideas, this is a story on repeat in my mind yet I’m making all kinds of excuses not to give it life. I luckily am yet to suffer a shred of writers block, but then again, it’s not like I’ve spent much time to put that theory to task. It sounds absurd, I know, especially because this is something I am very much capable of undertaking. I don’t need money to put my idea to paper. I can just do it, now even. And I should just go for it, start at least. That dream will always be there, even if it means this current manuscript wont be a part of it, others surly will someday.