It would be cool, but sadly, I am neither a robot, nor a vehicle.
Anyone who knows me, or has visited my blog very often knows that I search for the positives in a bucket full of negatives. I stare at the clouds until I see a sliver of sunshine. I don’t abandon hope even when all reasons to hold onto it have vanished. You can see for yourself here, here, here, here or here.
For all of this, some may shake their heads and call me an idiot. I think I am an optimist. Even though I recognize the challenges in this world, I see hope rather than despair. Good thing I can’t be objective because I might find that I’m a little of both…and an idiotic optimist is not what I aspire to be.
Here’s an example of how my optimism works.
During the first week of October, I scribbled out a short story on scrap paper. I carried those pages around for four weeks before I typed them into the computer. (That story is under 1,300 words.) It’s been nearly two weeks since I typed it but still haven’t had time to read and edit. I *might* be able to sneak some time in over Thanksgiving weekend, but with family obligations, I don’t know. Best case, this story will be polished by the end of November.
This works out to 1,300 words every two months. Let me show off my math skills (double-checked with a calculator, of course) – that’s 650 words per month; less than 22 words per day. If I continued to write at this snail’s pace, it would take me almost nine years to write a 70,000 word novel. Eeeps!
The good news is that this calculator-crunched number was better than I thought it would be. Working it out in my head, I figured my novel would be done by the time my grandchildren were grown. (Given the fact my older son is only nine, I’d better not have grandchildren for a loooong time!)
So, not only am I relieved by the nine-year estimate to complete a novel, somewhere in my heart, I believe I can finish it sooner. I’m not discouraged that during the same nine-year period, Nora Roberts will have churned out something like 63 novels (okay, I am a little bit.) Maybe it’s more jealousy than discouragement!
The optimist in me refuses to give up. She keeps reminding me: it’s not a race. It’s not when I finish that matters, it’s that I begin and end, and breathe every moment in between.
(All the while denying the possibility that I could be delusional, an idiot, or anything other than a pure optimist.)
Do you look on the bright side, or are you drawn to the reality of adversity? What is it that you are most optimistic about?