Deadlines and Stress

 I believe deadlines contribute more stress than any other events in our lives simply because they're so common. Some are internal, imposed by our own will. Others are external, imposed by someone outside our control.

I am currently under a deadline set by an outside entity. Every morning I wake with a feeling of dread and an upset stomach. Some of the stress is...wondering if we will be able to finish in time. We are older, not in good health, and have much to accomplish. And in the end, will it be enough?

Deadlines come in many forms. Writers--many of them--face deadlines. Those who write with a contract for a big publisher, may have a deadline set by the publisher. Indie writers (those who self-publish) write to self-imposed deadlines. I'm not very good with writing deadlines because there are so many outside events that interfere. Life happens at an increasing pace as you get older. Frequently, you have to make choices you aren't happy with.

In the day and age of Covid 19, deadlines are all around us. When will unemployment or stimulus or income tax checks show up? Will it be in time to cover the rent or food or other essentials? What if it doesn't? How will we manage? In the wider picture, how will we manage life?

Folks talk about depression and isolation and all sorts of other things we deal with daily, but I suspect those are mostly generated by the ever-present plethora of deadlines. We live by an internal calendar, always afraid we won't be able to accomplish whatever we need by our end-date.

And the stress...the stress is killing us.

The Downsizing Battle

At our place, we've been cleaning/tossing out stuff. At the beginning of the year, we decided we would make a concerted effort to downsize and then Covid 19 sauntered into the picture and we were soon derailed in our quest for clean closets.

Last week, after needing to empty all our closets for a blitz on the mice we share this building with, we made a new resolution to start again. We've lived here seventeen years. It's amazing how much junk you can accumulate without really trying. 

Paper! Piles and piles of files I suspect we will never look at again. Story starts. Genealogy info nobody wants. Recipes I'll never make. Research I'll never use again. And contracts for books from publishers long gone out of business. The thing about paper is it's heavy. So the hunk is hauling it down to the dumpster a bit at a time. 

Kitchen stuff. Pans, pots, Pampered Chef, roasting pans (who am I gonna cook for?), and big serving platters. When am I gonna use them? We cook for two, not ten. What am I saving them for? All my children live across the country. The truth my generation has discovered is this--our children don't want or need the stuff we accumulated.

Clothes. Nope, we're never gonna fit in that suit we saved from ten years ago. I'm never gonna wear that dress that was expensive, but hideously uncomfortable. I don't own appropriate shoes to wear with anything dressy. And the awful truth is most of the stuff is stained because I cannot for my life eat without dropping something on my bazzooms...

Some things are borderline. The Christmas Tree we bought and used...three or four years. It's in perfect shape, but man, I'm not up to setting it up and we have no place to put it when we do. That corner was taken when the apartment complex installed a washer/dryer closet, and I have to admit I wouldn't change a thing. The washer/dryer wins every time.

Craft stuff. Keep? Toss? As I grow more infirm, the craft stuff becomes more attractive. Calligraphy, beading, knitting, are all activities I can still do. So...maybe those will survive for a while longer. Maybe.

Every day, we try to throw five things out. Big. Little. But something has to go. It's a slow process, slower for us because things have value for us, but if our children had to go through this stuff, I'm sure it would be faster. Get some hauler specialists, and instruct them to haul it away. It might come to that eventually, but the hunk and I will make a start on it first. Onward.

Anny

Center of the Universe

 

This is the perfect description of life in America right now. Each of us is standing in the center of our own little circle, shouting for all we're worth, while everyone else is outside, unable to hear--or care--about what we're saying. In effect we're screaming into a void and the stress is killing us.

I stopped. I'm going to state an observation I've made many times over many years. Americans are the most stubborn folks on earth. Otherwise, we wouldn't be in the fix we're in. Oh, people can blame the government or politicians or their neighbors or God or irresponsible teenagers or... The truth is as a nation, we've decided no one is going to tell us what to do. We all stand around with our fingers poked in our ears droning la-la-la, convinced we're the only ones who are in the right.

Well, I'm done with that. Except for voting, I'm gonna withdraw to my office and do what I do best--write imaginary stories. If someone reads them, great. If not, great. When the great apocalypse is over, either we will have survived, or not. 

And I suspect the survivors will have learned nothing from the experience. They'll still be absolutely convinced they are in the right. And we'll still be divided, not from racism or politics or religion or any other divisive factors. No, we'll remain divided from sheer stubbornness and bullheadedness.

That's who we are.

Writing in the Pandemic Fog

 Writing during the apocalypse is odd. Unexpected anxieties make it difficult to concentrate. Ideas and story lines disappear like wispy clouds when the sun comes out. Time runs both slow and incredibly fast. And every morning I wake up with the renewed determination to finish the damn book, only to find at the end of the day that determination is not always enough.

So. The book is finished. Today I'll read through it one more time. And then...I'll do battle with Amazon to publish it on Kindle. And move on to the final book in the series. Time and opportunity is running out.

I suspect I'm not the only one feeling this way. Friends and family members are ill. Most of us are in the 'vulnerable' category so every time we venture out of our homes we are in danger. It's hard to believe anyone wants to buy a book when they're worried about paying bills or eating or caring for loved ones, but the truth is, we all need something positive to keep us going. So this is my contribution. 

In the meantime, I want to get back to writing my blog. Maybe, it will encourage one or two people to keep on going. Blessings and hugs to all of you.

Anny