Complet...

I really thought I had gotten rid of it. But just like the two chicken pox scars on my chest it is probably something that I will carry with me to the grave. It is nothing more than a trait, but it is an awfully annoying one. My inability to complete things I start.

It has been with me since I can remember. When I would think of something it would be with such enthusiasm that I would start with enjoyment and momentum. And then, just like that, the enthusiasm wavers and the enjoyment slowly trickles away and suddenly I’m grinding to a halt. I thought it was mostly because I was lazy and didn’t want to put in too much effort, the ideas were good but my focus was obviously ragged. This self made belief rested well with me for years, it was attaching something to the unknown that enabled me to shrug it off knowing full well that I am just too lazy to finish a difficult job. I think I formed it around about the same time I considered working part time in Blockbusters watching the latest films probably the best job in the world.

But just like the Pulp song “Something changed”. Obviously but completely unexpectedly I started to concentrate in improving my focus. This was fuelled by injustices of the world and closer to home which could not altered unless I took issues more seriously and thus develop the focus to finish mundane but necessary tasks, push through the barrier of uncertainty, when you sort of feel that you are not sure why you are doing this. In fact, I still do this quite a lot but even from doing it a few times I was beginning to finish things that I would have left without even thinking twice knowing full well that my initial belief of ‘it’s because I’m a slacker’ was justification and reason enough not to complete the task. This blog, is a good example. Although cajoled into starting one I soon realised that it was a virtual carte blanc for my ideas and inky fingers to get hold of. However, after a few months the gusto dwindled and ideas dried up faster than my contact lens do that I considered not bothering anymore. But with the morsel of improved focus I was able to push myself to type until the topics to write about retuned in abundance. It felt good writing but also good knowing that in a small way I had self improved. I no longer believed in this ‘well it’s because I’m a slacker’. Truth is I am not, or I am not one anymore and it felt good. I liked pushing myself a bit. But this did not settle my initial fear and loathing of not completing most things I started. In fact it reopened the wound in the same way you dig out an avocado pip, and it left me lost.

It dawned on me last week when I was thinking about the reasons why I shudder at completing things. It never was because I was lazy and ‘too cool to go to school’. That had been addressed, this was a stark realisation which kind of left me slightly cold but I’m pretty sure everyone gets that same feeling. The feeling of failure. Why bother finishing something if it ends up totally rubbish? You might as well cut your losses, call it a day. Consider it a learning experience and move onto something new. There is no point in completing something if you feel it will turn out to be a failure. My mind just wasn’t computing the concept of finishing something that would end as a disaster, so for years this was the true reason why I never finished things I started but managed to submerge it deep down in my subconscious.

I guess the reason for this entry and why I am writing out my thoughts to get to this point and then explain my point to myself (and you of course). I spent last Tuesday morning debating to start on the 3rd draft of my story. The 2nd draft took nearly 8 months to complete and there I found myself sitting in a café musing whether it was worth a 3rd draft. The story is basically done, it could stand alone but it is not finished. Supping on my coffee I realised that the 3rd draft would probably bring it to an end or at the very least bring me closer to being entirely happy with it. But what is stopping me is not the potential 8 months reading, rereading, writing, deleting and then reinserting again. I think I could cope with all that to a certain extent. It is the idea of spending all this time and energy writing something that in turn would end up being rubbish and a failure. It was strange moving my mindset to accept that I had finished my story just like that over a large Americano on a rainy grey Tuesday in February.

It took about thirty seconds before I reversed my decision. I had spent so much time, I mean since July 07 until now, piecing it all together, times where I was knackered but knew it was important to struggle on, times where I had been out drinking all night to come home and fire up the laptop because I thought of something new to add to the story. I would write in the rain, or in the blazing sun always adding to this crazy tapestry that was once a thought. I would write in various locations ranging from, the library, all sorts of cafes, on a toilet, the train, a beach, on grass, in bed, in the park, in the airport. Even at work I would occasionally get an idea and quickly cobble a paragraph together to refine later on that night. And then there are the people that took time out to read my 1st draft and give me feedback so I could write a better 2nd draft. And those that read the 2nd version who did the same to help me refine the next update, surely it is harsh on them and makes all their efforts redundant. And all the tunes I listened to whilst typing away, Sigur Ros, The Album Leaf, Air, Bjork, Babyshambles, Coldplay, Emiliana Torrini, Jamie T, Jose Gonzalez, Kanye West, The Killers, Kula Shaker, Lali Puna, M83, Madeliene Peryroux, Massive Attack, Oasis, Portishead, Psapp, Roni Size, Sebastien Tellier, The Thrills, Tricky, The Cardigans, Cat Power, The Eagles, Libertines, Metro Area… I could go on for ages, but I listened to all their music for help emotionally to write this thing, evoking memories or fuelling my imagination that kind of left me drained and it would be a waste, all of it, if I just considered it finished even though I know full well it is not.

I guess too much of me is involved in this thing now, even if I read it in ten years time and laughed embarrassingly to myself at what I wrote all those years ago. It doesn’t really matter does it? It is, at very least a reminder of just how I was and thought at that time and so it is important I finish it for myself. Correct the misuse of tense (and there are a lot of them), develop the characters and strengthen the main story line. And even if it is a failure and I read it afterwards with my head in my hands, it will have been completed and that in it self is some sort of achievement. Now, when I begin the 3rd draft is another matter.