Lofty Aims (and not the messenger)

Today I was writing on the topic of romantic preoccupations and the way that they are used to shield us from actually getting any work done and I had a most unpleasant realization. I was typing cheerfully, tongue-in-cheek, brutalizing the foolish ideas that I held as a youngster about artistic work and it occurred to me that I had just finished a romantic shielding ritual of my own.

I was about to sit down at my computer (after several little procrastination techniques: g-chatting with the b.f., reading the news, orange juice) when I reached, almost subconsciously, to grab a book of essays that I had left on the table and quickly finished the one that I was reading. This was only a lapse of about 15 minutes but I find it very unnerving in hindsight and so will discuss the miniscule event at length. Here I am, writing about the way the way that I used to fixate on finished-product fantasies to avoid the terrible fear of getting started on anything, and I actually put off working on my essay by reading another essay – a finished essay by a skilled writer. That is a finished-product fixation if I’ve ever heard one.

So what is the point of this diatribe? Mostly I am writing it to blow off the steam accumulated as a resulting of finding that although I am writing about the foolish habits of myself in tones of haughty self realization, I am exhibiting the same unproductive behaviors. The problem with the finished-product fixation, of course, is that you never start anything and therefore you never realize the finished product that you have long fantasized about. It’s a technique for eluding the obnoxious parts of reality, the possibility of failure and ect.

I read an article on grit once (Is it a learned trait? All of the richest people in the world have grit in abundance!) and I’m pretty sure that I don’t have it. I’m an alright person; I have somewhat lofty aims and a good enough work ethic when I work for someone else but I’m not amazingly ambitious or driven. Because of this I have to be on my guard against unproductive habits like the finish-product fixation.

And to close, something entertaining, because I’m sure no one clicked on this link in hopes of seeing my personal procrastinator demons laid bare. My main squeeze and I hung up a clothesline in our kitchen because we want to feel like a early 20th century immigrant couple living in a tenement apartment. Lofty aims, indeed.