I know you’re fucking sick of me writing how much not working I’m fucking not doing (or doing?) but fuck, work is slow and painful. I am a bad person.
I am not a bad person. I am trying to be a better person. I am a mediocre person? Anyways, so my s.o., after a fairly big fight and stuff, made a plan. I, like a programmer, apparently, need a manager. Because I suck at setting deadlines and meeting them, and I apparently also don’t know how fast or slow I write. Which leads to bad expectations which leads to unproductivity, etc. So my s.o., the dogged PM in his blood that he is, decided to actually iron it out. We decided every Sunday (or Saturday, depends on our schedule) we set a goal for next week, with stuff I should be doing and estimated hours need to complete, and see how far I get. Better managing expectations. Win-win, right?
WRONG! I sooooo failed the first week. I was supposed to work through a chapter and a half in roughly 15 hours or work. Yeah…didn’t happen. Got through nothing. Partially because this new thing is so paralyzing to me so I got scared (still am, but what else is new?). Partially because I had to brainstorm some large plotholes and of course, did not put that on the timesheet (yes, brainstorm takes time, sometimes days without a word written because you just couldn’t get over where that screw was supposed to go in that imaginary difference engine). My fault, of course, so this week it’s playing catch up. Before I even started. Oof.
And catch-up? Well, theoretically I’m supposed to be working 4 hours a day. However, “working” doesn’t mean “writing,” it also includes lots and lots of kinks in “planning” and “plugging plotholes” and “hating self over how horrible your characters are in their conversations and growth”. So I’ve “worked” for at least 4 hours a day and had written a total of maybe 2 hours, for the past three days. Like, what the fuck. Second week, doing marginally better than first week so I should be happy right? Ha! I’m now 3 chapters behind my schedule. I guess it’s time to readjust but how do you go to your s.o. who tried hard to help you and say, yeah, so, I so failed. So badly. Can we maybe stop doing this or start over or something? Because I’m not working less, I’m just working much, much slower than even I thought I ever could be. Sorry, I suck, I will never amount to anything worthwhile in my lifetime. Sorry you married me.
That sounds depressing, though. I don’t want to end like this. I’m not that depressed, just a momentary relapse into worthlessness. It happens. Today I will finally finish that half chapter, maybe. Oh my god. And to think if I ever finish this draft I have to pretty much rewrite the whole thing again because right now it’s nigh unreadable. Wow. Not going to think about that yet. First, I need to make sure I work at least 2 solid hours on writing and not planning today. Or some such. And keep going tomorrow. And Saturday. And on and on and maybe I can get somewhere. Man, doing stuff I love is this hard? Imagine doing a job I hate – or, maybe don’t imagine. No wonder I was depressed and couldn’t do shit for years while I worked for someone else. Just waking up feels like a chore already.