You will never be ready


‘What are you waiting for?’ the book says.

‘I’m not ready,’ I say.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not ready. I’ve got to finish this first.’


‘This thing.’

‘What thing?’

‘Something that I’m doing. I need to finish it,’ I say.

‘Can’t it wait?’

‘No it can’t.’

‘What is it?’

‘A thing.’

‘Is it important?’ the book says.

‘Yes. No, actually. No, it’s not. Of course it’s important. It’s my work.’

‘Oh, your work,’ the book says. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

The book leans over my shoulder to look at what I am doing. It sees that I am answering an email.

‘It’s an email,’ the book says flatly. ‘An email. And this you call important?’

‘It is important. They need a response.’

‘Can’t it wait?’ the book says again.

With a sigh I close the lid of my laptop. ‘Happy now?’ I say.

‘Plus you had Twitter open. And your blog stats. What are you playing at?’

‘They’re just for fun. And anyway, they’re routine,’ I say. ‘I don’t even notice I’m doing them.’

‘These are the lies you tell yourself?’ the book says. ‘No wonder you never get anything done.’

‘But I’m not ready.’

‘Not ready?’ the book says. ‘You’re waiting to be ready? The bolt-from-the-blue-shot-of-inspiration-perfect-Saturday-morning-in-a-quiet-cafe kind of ready? You’re joking, right?’

‘I’m not ready,’ I say again.

‘You will never be ready,’ the book says. ‘Never. Not if you spend half your life waiting. Or arsing around on Twitter.’ The book lets out a long sigh.

‘But I’m not,’ I say. ‘I’ve no idea what I’m doing. Plus it’s all useless anyway.’

‘All the more reason why you should start,’ the book says. ‘And anyway, that stuff you did yesterday, that wasn’t too bad. You should carry on with that.’

‘You think so?’ I say.

‘You know so,’ the book says. ‘And anyway, you don’t need my approval to get on with it. Just do it.’

‘You think so?’

‘Of course.’

‘But I’m not ready,’ I say.

‘You’ll never be ready,’ the book says again. ‘You only get ready by doing it.’


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