How to nudge gravity?
What I learned from missing deadlines
«Welcome to Expiration Date! The stories and essays will arrive every two weeks, on Friday».
Every two weeks, on Fridays. That was the plan. I was eager and had months of texts, written since the diagnosis, that I wanted to turn into articles and share.
I followed the plan for six months. Autumn, winter, and spring went by, and I published every two weeks, without fail.
(Two)
In April, I considered delaying publication one week: I was going away for a few days and wanted to enjoy the experience. I hesitated.
I hesitated because I had made a promise to my readers.
I hesitated because I'm supposed to want to publish more, not less. The publications I follow on Substack come out with articles every week, at least.
In the end, I thought no one would notice. As for the algorithms… It is what it is.
I decided to delay the next article’s publication.
(Three)
In June, I published an article about life after death, which left me in a limbo state — what was I going to write after that? It took me a while to get back into my writing routine, which then was disrupted by a week I spent at a festival.
The next article was published four weeks after the previous one.
(Four)
Do you see where this is going? The article you're reading was published three months after the previous one.
Before I knew it, that first, almost impossible decision had become a habit. I stopped following a regular publishing schedule and changed the welcome email to remove the phrase «The stories and essays will arrive every two weeks, on Friday».
Curiously enough, at that very first moment, I knew... or it felt as if I did. The first time I missed my deadline, I knew that I would do it again. As if when I fail to deliver once, it becomes «easier» to fail the second time, and then things start to crumble, and it’s much harder to go back to the «perfect» streak. I knew this decision would push the snowball downhill and that it would be very difficult to stop.
And I did it anyway.
At that moment, I became a person who could fail the publishing schedule, and a critical, judgmental voice said, See? You can't do it.
Somewhere, a part of me was relieved, because if I don't publish, there's no risk. Accidentally, I created a protection against discomfort. It's uncomfortable to expose myself, not just through words, but also by creating a project that can fail.
Not publishing every two weeks also made sense because I like to have time to discover words and ideas through the act of writing (discovery writing). Because I think I need time, during the bad weeks, not to write. Because I write as therapy, and sometimes I need to «recover» from a particularly deep dig. Because I want to enjoy life.
The arguments are valid. The problem isn't the occasional missed deadline, whatever the reasons. The problem is the snowball effect.
I could picture myself as an author with a flexible plan, or as someone who follows a plan and occasionally deviates from it. But there is a voice inside me that insists that I'm either conscientious or not, responsible or irresponsible, with no in-between, as if perfection is the only acceptable option.
It's possible that this rigidity, this inflexible all-or-nothing mindset, was shaped at a time when I believed that being irresponsible had terrible consequences and that being responsible kept me safe.
Ironically, this belief, instead of making me more conscientious and getting me back on schedule, sticks a label on me that becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.
With this awareness, I try to let other voices speak louder:
The voice of compassion: turning inward the voice that says that people do the best they can with the tools they have.
The voice of right view: realising that any idea of perfection is a snowball that will never win the fight against gravity.
The voice of learning: realising that I need to rethink the frequency of publication or eliminate it altogether; taking this moment as a sign to contemplate, adapt, and review, and a sign that I need to train my ability to concentrate when writing.
The voice of purpose: remembering why I'm here.
Slowly, I peel off the label. I switch on my tablet, create a new document, and write, «Welcome to Expiration Date!». I let myself overflow, and the words come out, breaking the prophecy.
I will go forward with hope: gravity also works for the good stuff. A snowball rolling down a hill can be momentum with a purpose — all we have to do is start, do one tiny movement, to get it going.
The inertia is real isn’t it! Especially when writing and sharing vulnerable things. But I always value reading what you have to say, whether it’s on a schedule or not ✨