Hestia.... has another tidy fail

I am a sucker for self-helpy-motivational booky stuff.  My friends joke that if there was a book to wean you off self-help books, it too would adorn my bookshelves.

Many a happy hour I have lain on the sofa, Loose Women chuntering on aimlessly as background noise,  reading about how to energise my life and git myself motivated.  I never stir from the comfort of the couch.

There are those who change their lives and those who just change their sitting position.

I am, unfortunately, one of the latter.



One of my favourites is The War of Art by Steven Pressfield (Black Irish) in which he urges us to confront our Resistance and Get Off Our Arses and git creating.  Of course! I MUST CREATE!! I MUST WRITE!! But I simply eat my Crunchie, adjust my sitting position and keep turning the pages.

*sigh*

I was recommended Pressfield's latest book:  Turning Pro.  Would this make any difference? Of course, I HAD to give it a go. It's a slender read, I rattled through it in a few hours.   I snapped the virtual book shut on my Kindle app and, dear Reader, I GOT OFF THE SOFA.

This time it was going to be different!!!

The premise of the book is that you've got to show up.  Get on with it.  Be professional, stop wimping out like an amateur - really dig in and stop being a dilettante.  I shalltTurn off facebook! Quit constantly checking e-mail.  Start work.

And so I started.

Well, I decided that there were some Bare Minimum Housework Chores that needed doing first.  Get them out of the way and I could write and write and write without that nagging little saintly voice telling me that leaving two days worth of dirty dishes in the sink was Not Professional.  I washed the dishes.

Then I changed my bed.  I wondered how often my friends changed their beds.  Cue a quick visit to facebook to ask my nearest and dearest how often they changed their bedding.  And then someone else where asked me a question.  And I thought that it would Be Professional to answer it.

Five hours later, my eyeballs are so dry they are sticking to the back of my eyelids.  I blearily look round and realise that the day has vanished.

It is now time for dinner.

I decide to be professional in my making of the dinner and go downstairs and make some proper lebanese meatballs, complete with tasty yoghurt dressing thing.  They go down a storm.

I feel righteous.

But I still haven't written anything.

Sonshine and I settle down for four back to back episodes of The Killing.  Oh man, that last episode of Series 3....it's getting WEIRD.

We wearily climb the stairs to bed.  I throw open the bedroom door and there they are:  My mattress, duvet and pillows sulk angry and naked.  I groan.  I never finished changing my bed.

This professionalism thing is just utterly beyond me.  How about you?