30 That bad
Friday afternoon.
I’m working on the ePub (digital version) of my book.
It’s not coming out as I envisioned, and my frustration is mounting.
The section headers are appearing on the title page of each section, and I can’t stand how it looks.
The only solution—uploading and updating each page individually—will take five, maybe seven, hours.
I refuse to compromise on the formatting.
I want all four versions of my work—ePub, audiobook, paperback, and deluxe hardcover gift edition—to look exactly as I’ve imagined.
It feels like when the CHECK ENGINE light comes on, and I feel the dread of losing copious amounts of time and money.
My eyes narrow. I lose my humor. My mind searches for a scapegoat or a funny, sunny explanation.
But there’s nothing.
I feel awful.
“You still have two hours until you are done for the day—just do the work,” I tell myself.
So, I do.
I reorganize the multiple windows on my multiple computer screens and start the meticulous fix.
I reflect on a decision I made about 43 decisions ago when I could have made a different choice.
I am pre-exhausted—if such a thing is possible.
I feel stupid. Maybe I could have avoided this mess.
Of course, the people who pre-ordered the book will be patient and forgiving.
But I’m disappointed and frustrated nonetheless.
***
About ten minutes into the horrible time suck, EUREKA!
I figure out how to make it work without the hours of toil.
Joy.
Huzzah.
My mood soars.
Near exuberance.
I’m not going to lose all that time, after all.
But my next thought is chilling.
I think, “It wasn’t that bad after all, was it?”
***
To tell myself, “That wasn’t so bad,” is anti-compassionate, gaslighting, and cruel.
It was bad.
It’s not bad now.
But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t bad then.
And, that compassion isn’t still needed.
I wonder if you’ve had this experience, as well—minimizing your past pain and struggle.
I wonder if you, like me, can afford to be a little more compassionate toward your past self.
