“A little bit of writing.”
That’s what she called, it, my dear old friend from drama school.
18 modules. Translating the contents of her head. “Now we need sentences with the Eeyore sound.” “Eh?” “You know – like fjord. Kia-Ora.” Ok so she didn’t use that one. But she basically needs me to write a book of exercises in less than a week. It all makes sense in her head. But other people have different heads. Even old friends.
She rang me up last night for some help. I didn’t really have the time, what with all the stuff I still have to sort. But she’s a good friend and I’m always there if I can be, particularly at short notice. Plus she was paying. So I did a day. The time flew by. But it was hard to make sense of what she needed from me. And we definitely didn’t have the time. We were halfway through the third module when I said “If there are eight of these we might need another day.” “Eight? There are eighteen.”
About then is when I freaked out.
I don’t like doing things badly. I’d sooner not do it than do it slipshod. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. But maybe it’s useful for me to learn to shortcut, otherwise I put off starting things forever because I don’t trust I have time to do them well. After all, I frequently write crap blogs if I’m exhausted. It’s actually good practice for me to let go like this, having to do one every day no matter what. “Oh fuck it that’ll do” is a reasonably unusual pattern of thinking to me. So I keep churning out minimum 500 words a day.
Now I’m going home with a list of vowels and dipthongs, and while I’m sorting porcelain on the floor of my hall I’ll be writing lines utilising my mind and time. All those bloody pat sentences, but new ones. The burglar was searching through Murphy’s dirty shirts when he was disturbed by the girls. The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain. How now brown cow. Air Hair Lair!! Helpfully – (not helpfully) – she likes to give them a little poem to practice with at the end of the session using all the sounds. Sergeant Marwood charmed the clerk to teach dressage in Richmond Park. George Warne sorts porn, his daughter caught him, he’s forlorn. Doggerell.
I’ve got about twenty boxes of porcelain to sort, a van to plan to return, three weird scenes to glean, better then ten letters to send, an urn of kernels to burn for the colonel, a cargo of yaargh to aargh gaaargh aaaaaaa fllargh and I’m on a mission to smash an audition. Every second I work for someone else right now is disrespectful of my own needs and desires. I’ve been doing that for so long my stuff is backed up to the point that it has to be looked at now so I can return resurgent in a few months uncluttered by the weight of the years of delaying. My focus right now shouldn’t be someone else’s needs, but mine. But there’s a deadline looming, this is work I’m good at, and my friend needs me – (and she’s paying). So now I’m suddenly Doctor fucking Suess without a story. She’s paying ok for the weight of the cake. But it’s too much to do and my time should be prime. Aargh.