Wednesday 10.00am
My…. acquaintances… shall we say… for I no
longer have friends, per se… can call me obsessive compulsive. I’m not. Just dedicated. Usually finish what I started. That’s supposed to be a good thing. Right? Granted they do try to counteract what is
really intended as an insult by adding ‘…but in a good way.’ However, as I look around me, at my life, how
it’s turning out since I started my writing journey about seven years ago, I
think they might be spot on; I’ve let everything
else slip… and not least of which, my physical self. This is an addiction, no joke about it anymore like I used to say; I'm being entirely serious; the effects as potentially damaging as many other, frowned upon, addictions.
If I have a resolution - which I don’t normally make simply because it’s a new year - for 2013, it’s that
I have to balance my love of writing with what pays the bills, what inspires
me… what keeps the weight of my erstwhile slim waistline – which is kind of
funny because I don’t really eat, never have… but the old metabolism, that used to beat any amount of calories into submission singlehandedly, has started to turn traitor.
I've been 'binge-writing' recently, been obsessed, had one of those bouts that last a few weeks where everything else goes to hell and time has no meaning. The result... even though I have an ergonomic chair and desk, all the poise in the world, what feels like some kind of a hip
displacement! That's new! I've found that kind of writing really is detrimental to my health:
headaches, eye strain, tennis elbow, stiff joints, nodules in my right arm where it leans on the desk,
weight gain (yes, despite the fact I don't eat) hair loss, baggy skin... sore ribs... or somethin'... I could go on. But that's all going to change; yes, this year I'm
getting back into jogging and other stuff that will balance what should be my real life with my writing one much more fairly, much more healthily.
Today I have to do
my taxes – an infinitely hated task that despite the relative simplicity of when
I do get around to them, are seven months overdue - as reminded by Revenue
Canada last week - a letter I’ve long since expected - insisting I file a return – and which I’ve
resolved to do right now, today, but in
my obsessive compulsiveness, well-versed in the art of procrastination with
everything else these days other than writing - and especially when it comes to facts and
figures - I’ve found myself compiling this article instead. Yes, indeed, a true addict.
But I will do them; I don’t want to get up in the
morning anymore and dread having to, because that’s the first thing that pops
into my mind, and I am, believe it or not, a responsible citizen… or at
least I used to be... when I was part of society.
My taxes are filed
in plastic bags, the odd liquor store and Safeway ones, garbage bags, even - perhaps the writer in me;
a metaphor for what I really think of taxes - and, in ink, the year
scribbled less than eloquently on the outside before being tossed into a little office in my workplace that I don’t use
except to hide things I don’t want to see.
If I’m ever audited, that’s what they’ll get; garbage bags and less than
well-kept records that are, actually, probably to my detriment. Yes, I am a CRAP businessman. Hate that side of anything,
even in writing… hate promoting myself, my books, hate having to do the marketing… all of
that stuff. But there comes a time you
have to bite the bullet. Today’s that day, and for all my love of sitting and writing, still trying to procrastinate even now, I'm glad I'm the kind of person that can kick myself up the arse before it's too late.
However, it’s struck
me, if I were to put as much effort into my real life, my real relationships,
my real business, as I do with writing, I’d probably be a highly successful, popular guy -
at least in that weird way people
used to be enamoured... or somethin'... by me. I’d be slimmer, able to
wear the fitted designer shirts in 'medium' from Italy that've been abandoned to the
darkest recesses of my closets, the pair of jeans I've never worn, all of which, in lucid, occasional moments in the
real world, have become but a pipe dream; remnants of a surreal memory of
a more dynamic me that would go out of my way to do photobombs. Not anymore; swiping away anyone's camera like Naomi Campbell to the paparazzi as soon as they come anywhere near me.
But that’s all going
to change. Yes, cha-nge, I tells ya. I’m going to start eating
again too, proper food. Maybe I’ll lose some weight; 20Ibs and
climbing over what I should be;
shocked to see too (as someone who didn’t lose or put on a single pound my
entire life regardless of my habits) that even a ‘large’ won't tell the lie
effectively. And yes, it may not be
much, but I watch The Biggest Loser,
that’s how they all start.
And so I feel I have been a bit obsessive, and, no; not in a
good way at all - save your political correctness for social media - I see what
writing is doing to me, how it's affecting me, snared me, literally, into its den, how my puppy looks at me, to say ‘oh, please,
not again for fuck sake’ when I sit at my desk. Don’t
get me wrong; I know what’s important; he gets his exercise, and plenty of it,
lovin’ too, but going to the park is becoming more of a chore than quality time
for me, if I’m being honest, and even then, my mind teeming with clever anecdotes that makes me wish I'd brought a pen. But that is
the one thing that does make me sit and think about how much time I am spending writing, perhaps the
catalyst that makes me come to this realization; for not only do I need to
focus more on my lovely little dog, but on me, my old friends, my health, my business – which
perhaps is in danger of being run so far into the ground that there’s an
entrance into it from Australia, because I'm simply neglecting it in some ways. After
all, it is life, people, and the very art of living that inspire my stories;
staying indoors writing for years on end, even as a highly imaginative person,
is like never maintaining your car (which I also let go for two years until
recently, used to do that every winter and every summer). No, your mind needs ‘lubed’ as
well, and perhaps parts of you too (get yours out the gutter) I mean like... aromatherapy... or somethin'... whatever, total
relaxation, anyway. A mental vacation.
I think I’ve come
far enough in this never ending writing journey, for it will be never-ending, apparently, that I can afford to calm it a
bit now, stop obsessing, take time out every now and then, because I think I’ve become quite good at
it, yes; I should really
focus on doing that – however ‘taxing’ it might be.
Wednesday 5pm
So, in the process
of going through every drawer, every bag, every room at both work and home, I
not only got my 2011 taxes organised, but my 2012 ones too - six months earlier
than I need to, which should make up for the six months I’m late with the 2011
return, don't ya think? But I did have a moment of
panic, starting to absolutely freak out when I saw the piles of receipts and invoices before
me, but then, with my newfound attitude, nothing else to do, methodically went through it all, and surprisingly, rather enjoyed it. I’ll file the return
electronically tomorrow, for I most definitely have had enough now. However, in the process, I found two
un-cashed cheques, one from my 2010 taxes from the government for $179,26,
which thankfully I can still cash over a year later, and one for just under $30.00 from another company which is only a few months old. And if that wasn’t surprising enough,
two of a number of old lottery tickets bringing me another $40.00 when I checked
them - so I'm richer by $250.00 just by getting myself organized... the universe rewarding me for making the effort to come out of the dark shadows of my writer's mindset? Don't be ridiculous; merely coincidental, shows just what a CRAP businessman I am.
Now I’m off to have
pizza and beer and watch the premiere of American
Idol - the diet and exercise will begin after the taxes are filed; too much
all at one time. Yes, too much, I deserve a bloody break.
