On Failing and Not Failing

I sit at the computer, in the dark. The glow of the screen exacerbates my throbbing headache. I stare at the clock in the corner of the screen--Sat 2:45 AM. It is technically still Friday wherever these TwoWritingTeachers call home, technically still day 23 of the writing challenge. I technically still haven't failed. At least not at this.

With my middle finger, I wipe a piece of "gunk" from the corner of my eye. Apparently, my quick rest on the couch developed into something a bit more serious. How in the world is it almost 3 AM? How did I sleep that long?

 It wasn't even my first nap of the day. I had finagled my conference schedule so that the last family left my room at about 11:45. It had been a rough week. On Tuesday, something inside me snapped. Maybe I can blame the graduate school assignment that still isn't done. Or the stress of making sure every kid is ready his or her conference despite the people in offices' disregard for people in classrooms' challenging task. Maybe it was the lockdown drill that had me wondering how the US's "shit" had (yet again) found its way to Africa and wasted our morning here on the other side of the globe.

At 12:30, I changed to my jogging clothes and set off under the heat of the African sun. It was too hot to be running. My 5 kilometers, turned 3.5. Just add it to my list of failures for the week. To be fair, no one should try to run in Accra at 12:30 in the afternoon...ever...and today was particularly hot. I ran to the beat of classical music, the rising pitch of cellos and timpani drums drowning out honking car horns and bleating goats usually creates a powerful contrast and pushes me on. Today it did nothing. I should have played pop tunes. I could have sung along with them. Instead the wordless music allowed my mind to recount my pathetic behavior from the week. The commitments I had neglected, the people I have spoken harshly to, the selfishness with which I centered every interaction.

When I reached home from my shortened run, I look down at my fancy watch. I swiped left to view the day's activities. My ring isn't closed. I've failed again. Maybe I can do some yoga to make up for the missed 1.5k of running. But that was the last thought I had before drifting to sleep on the couch. My sweat soaked into the cushions. It will probably start to smell bad by tomorrow.

I woke up hungry, with throbbing at my temples. My watch reminded me my activity was 87% complete...13% percent failure. I managed my way to the kitchen where I fried an egg and ate it standing at the counter. I still need to write. I was feeling uninspired. I decided that maybe if I read for a bit I would hit my groove and be ready to write. I sat on the side of the couch that didn't have a sweat stain. I didn't even finish the first page. Another failure, I suppose.

And now I'm here. And I'm not failing at this-- at least not technically.

Comments

  1. Molly HoganMarch 24, 2018 at 7:38 PM

    This piece expresses your feelings so eloquently--as your fiction always does. You've accomplished so much with your writing this month. I've been wowed by how you've brought Jack and Akua to life. Your reflective piece about whether or not you were meeting the "guidelines" of slicing, was a beautiful piece about the power of writing. You clearly put yourself heart and soul into what you do, and I would bet that you are the only one who sees yourself as failing in the areas you mentioned. I hope that your perception of failing has shifted already and that it was just one of those awful days when we see 87% success as 13% failure. Hang in there. Be kind to yourself. And know that there's no failure in the challenge, even if you don't write again all month. Though I sincerely hope you do.

    ReplyDelete
  2. UnknownMarch 25, 2018 at 3:01 AM

    That relentlessly unforgiving watch has to go ;)

    ReplyDelete
  3. RajikinsMarch 31, 2018 at 6:40 AM

    You are too hard on yourself, sir. Your writing certainly never fails to entertain.

    ReplyDelete

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