Why I Miss My Own Deadlines
So, here we are. April 10th. If you’ve been refreshing your podcast feed like a hopeful gambler pulling a slot machine, you’ve probably noticed the deafening absence of Episode 9.
Yes I blew my own self imposed deadline, again😒. Because of course I did. Missing deadlines is practically a rite of passage for any creative person. But let’s not pretend this post is just about me running late, It’s about the universe conspiring one tiny, infuriating distraction at a time to sabotage the things we do for love, not necessity.
The Creative vs. The Apocalypse
The world right now is a shitshow for focus. The hum of global anxiety isn’t background noise; it’s a goddamn foghorn in the brain. For those of us with neurodivergent wiring, that foghorn isn’t just loud it’s a full-blown system crash. The kind of focus it takes to sculpt dialogue, layer soundscapes, or wrestle a narrative into submission? Poof, Gone. Like trying to build a sandcastle in a hurricane.
And then there’s the next shiny thing syndrome 😂
I’ll admit it: I’ve lost entire days down the rabbit hole of the next glittery AI thing. Can this LLM write a sonnet about a toaster grappling with existential dread? (Spoiler: yes, and it’s haunting.) But can I spend 30 minutes editing the next podcast scene? Apparently not. The irony? I’m hypnotized by the potential of these tools but paralyzed by the act of using them. It’s like standing at the edge of a pool, marvelling at the water, and forgetting how to swim.
Sixty is not the New Forty.
Here’s the real kicker: I’m starting to feel the weight of my own mortality. Not in a carpe diem way, but in a why the hell am I rushing way.
“Sixty is the new forty!” they trill. But let’s get real: historically, 60 was a victory lap. In Roman Britain you were ancient at 30. Even in the early 1900s, hitting 60 meant you’d outlasted the average. So yeah, as the kids might say 'I'm getting well old' . My body, after decades of abusing it working in cold warehouses acting like a human fork lift moving bags of sand, cement and even Salt day after day in the late 80's and early 90's and then Nightshifts 00's in retail replenishing Aches, stiffness, the slow rebellion of parts I took for granted it’s all here. And no, I never smoked, or even drunk till my 30's but I did treat my food intake like a dare. Karma’s a bitch with a fork and a twisted sense of humour.
So what’s this got to do with deadlines? Maybe it’s an excuse. Maybe it’s mental evolution. But here’s the truth: I don’t feel the fire anymore. Not for arbitrary dates, anyway. The self-imposed pressure to perform has started to feel like a bad joke. I’d rather sit. Breathe. Watch the world spin without me for a bit.
The Podcast Lives (On Its Own Time)
Here’s the deal: I’m ditching the deadlines. Episodes will drop when they’re ready. This isn't because I’ve lost passion; I love this damn podcast.
It’s my confessional, my sandbox, my legacy. I love the sound design, the story, and the way it lets me sneak my weird little ideas about life into the universe. Every character is a fragment of me, stumbling through the same questions: What does it mean to be other? Why do plans crumble like stale bread? And why is peace so much harder to find than all the books claim?
Maybe as I do less in the real world, I’m living more through them. They get to run, fight, and save galaxies. Me? I’ll be here, slightly stiff, grinning at the chaos.
So Episode 9 Is Coming
Stay tuned and subscribed. Just don’t keep checking your feed. The panda and I will arrive when it feels right, till then stay safe and thanks for the support.