This is my first blog for a month or so, partly because I’m incredibly busy finishing the second book in The Chronicles of Hope series (2083, out in October), partly because an annoying reminder in my timetable keeps prompting me I need to write a blog (for search engine optimisation purposes, whatever that is), and partly because I’m not convinced anyone really reads them.
Either way instead of just writing one word and satisfying the search engine optimisation I’ve found an hour to rattle on quickly about some stuff, and fresh in my mind are the subjects of moaning and complaining. We have a new apprentice at work and she delights in pulling me up on how often I moan. Apparently it’s a lot. I think that dealing with complainants who lack a perspective so greatly as to formally complain that the seagulls were making too much noise one day (this actually happened) gives me a pretty solid defence. But either way she’s right, I do moan, and what’s more I think I enjoy moaning and think being a pessimist is great. I’m a happy person but always expect the worst. If the worst comes I’m in a great place to deal with it, if it doesn’t come I’m ecstatically surprised and on a bigger high than I would’ve been if expecting everything to be just dandy.
As much as I’m a pretty serious pessimist (I received some good news recently that ‘2082’ was being featured on the US Amazon Daily Deal that genuinely almost gave me a panic attack) and like to moan, I rarely complain and feel extreme guilt whenever I do so. I don’t know if that makes me some kind of cowardly whinger but I always try to inject perspective into a situation before it gets to the complaining stage, the stage at which you actively cause other people annoyance.
I think that maybe I’ve been battered into this submissive pessimistic state by the reality of the world around us. It’s unfathomably sad that children are starving in their millions because of the decisions that our world leaders have made over the last couple of hundred years. It’s unfathomably sad that some people, most with a disease (addiction) or a mental illness, have nowhere to live and have to sleep outside on the street. It’s unfathomably sad that some people are cruel to animals, that they’re so cowardly they choose to inflict pain onto a defenceless creature. Women in bhurkas, the look on a guide dogs face, the list goes on and this world is one that requires a defence mechanism.
George Carlin had a great one, almost becoming his own therapist in a way by noting the need to consciously detach himself from such thoughts and try to find the humour in them, the trick simply ‘not to give a fuck’. I see the logic in that, yes you should do what your heart and conscience tells you to order to try and change things, but underneath it not giving a fuck seems one of the keys to a happy life.
Apologies if this is rambling nonsense, if so please disregard large swathes of it and be assured that ‘2083’, out in October, is a far more cogent read. Thanks