And then I think that here’s me and I, comparatively, am such an underachiever compared to a lot of my family. Partly this is because of my perfectionism, I don’t know what I’d have to do to reach a point where I didn’t feel like an underachiever; I suspect quite a lot.
I’m not really bothered about this; I have a sense that I have huge potential, but through illness and environment things have never quite panned out for me but that in the fullness of time this potential will blossom. The last year, for instance, as I look back on it, has been rather stunningly successful for me.
I’ve done some major personal demon slaying, made some great strides personally and can now think about what I’m doing professionally in life. It’s been really good. I’m not happy with it, I hoped to get further, get more done, but this hasn’t been my fault; I have done everything that I could possibly have done, which is……acceptable.
I’m still chomping at the bit, I’m still hungry and eager to crack on and when the time comes I’ll be able to hit the ground running, but the fact remains that I still have time to kill and I still have ambitions outside of my professional ambitions.
I want to get back into writing, I want to get something published and that means getting past my perfectionism and just writing. I think that I have the talent for it, it’s just getting past the idea that whatever comes out first won’t be a magnum opus that will immediately be published as a Penguin Modern Classic, made into a film and catapult me into the stratosphere of the literati and therefore isn’t worth bothering with. If I’m not immediately going to get the nobel prize for literature it’s pointless, right?
Then I remind myself that the only way to get that good is to write. I was talking to Plato about this and his advice is just to write and not worry how good it is, that’s for other people to decide, not me. It’s good advice. I think I might have an earlyish night tonight and then crack on with it tomorrow and see were I get to.