Some one once called me Stalin. Not because I had caused the death of millions or created a dictatorial system based around my own whims and issues but because I always had five year plans. I like plans. I like lists. I feel secure when I know what I am doing and where I am aiming. I like to know on a Friday what the weekend will hold. I like to know where I am going on holiday and what I will visit. This is also the case in both my work and academic lives: I know where I want to be in five years time and I roughly know how to get there. The nature of the plan may change but, with every new focus comes an automatic mental state that I do not even notice.
Yet I am awful at planning for my free time. Or rather not planning. I can plan a whole week of thesis related tasks but struggle to arrange an evening of nothing. Spontaneous I am not. PT sessions get booked in hour slots. Episodes of Dexter last 49 minutes. I time and plan my life to the nth degree. Whilst it has benefits, it also has draw backs. Writing a thesis needs time set aside for specific tasks at specific times. The next step may well depend upon several overlapping tasks that all need to be finished at the same time. There are deadlines for submissions. Deadlines for article applications. Planning is crucial. Yet for someone using stories and narratives, too much planning is contradictory for narratives flow and develop at their own pace. They run off in tangents, stagnate in pools or develop lives of their own. Stories grow, shift and change. They are elusive often darting away like a willo the wisp. So it is often a mystery to me that this rigid planner is working with such a badly behaved and untameable medium.
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