Jesus, I friggin’ love Hugh MacLeod.
You know what, Hugh? I’m sick of my great potential. People have been telling me my whole life that I’ve got such great potential, boy, and I’m really going to do wonderful things… one of these days. It’s a narrative that I’ve bought into, too, because it’s a hell of a lot easier to tell that story than to actually produce anything.
I’ve stayed with girlfriends because they had potential and I’ve worked for companies that had a lot of potential and I’ve struggled with projects for far too long because they had such sweet, tantalizing, beautiful potential.
But the fact is that potential doesn’t mean shit. Potential is energy coiled, motion conserved, action delayed. Potential could sit there for the rest of eternity for all it cares, and never move, and that’s what it asks you to ignore.
So Rule #2: Don’t fall in love with potential. Potential hasn’t happened.
I’m tired of my fucking potential. I’m tired of letting potential pass as a substitute for accomplishment. I’m tired of being in the habit of thinking in the future tense; “I will do this;” “I’m going to do that.” God grant me the strength to do, and spare me from making the lame excuse of getting-ready-to-do.