The psychological aversion to starting the inevitable has its claws in me deep.
My calendar is marked for the pacing, narrative, and story edits to begin on the Holodomor manuscript. February 8 was the date. Instead, I’ve spent every day since then working on series bible edits. I cannot release the series in December without 80% of the prose ready for prime-time. I’m aiming the loaded gun at my foot, and my finger is on the trigger.
What is it about success (just finishing something) that makes me want to run away screaming like my hair is on fire? Is there a name for this sort of internalized fuckery? Is it listed in the DSM? I bet the German’s have a word for it. I could google, but it’s cleverer to pretend I’m not that emotionally invested.
The youngest started their new job last month, and they hate it already because “It’s turning into too many hours and I have no time for myself.” I say nothing. I could remind them that they all they do is sleep through the hours they’ve lost, or they play the X-Box. Noble pursuits to be sure but in the absence of “undecided about college,” such activities are not worth the lament.
If you’re following my Instagram, you saw my February 15th candy haul. I know, it’s impressive. The highlight was snagging a tin heart of Dove peanut and caramel filled hearts. The Dove hearts didn’t go out being swallowed whole the way Jabba downed his paddy frog. Nope, they went out with the glory and gore that befell Quint when Jaws chewed her way into shortening his life expectancy.
See you next Sunday.