Writers tend to set goals. Some writers move the goalposts forward, then forward again.

My philosophy has been not to set firm goals. I prefer to put my nose into my computer and work until it's done. No pressure.

But that's a lie I have told myself during the pandemic. These days there is pressure, subliminal and sinister, pushing its way into my consciousness.

My latest WIP (work in progress) has been fun to write. It is light and fluffy. So three and a half months ago I set a goal, one that felt realistic and practical. 500 words a day isn't much, I told myself. I can do that.

Nope. Today, I should be done, or close to finished at what could have been 52,000 words. It falls short at 37,500. That is because I read the news and I grieve. Writing doesn't matter, it takes a back seat to reflection and introspection.

Which brings me to my point. Goal setting and reaching for goals is good. A goal is a dream with a deadline (Napolean Hill). That's what we have been taught. Reach for the stars! Work hard and you can achieve anything!

These are challenging times. The history of pandemics can testify to that. Cut yourself some slack. Bruce Lee said it well - a goal is not always meant to be reached, it is something to aim at.

So as I read through my latest manuscript, I see drivel and dribble, words that are meant to entertain, not instruct, a story to get lost in, fun, fluffy, light and about 14,000 words short of a goal that should never have been set.

The news draws me back once more and like many of us, I reflect.

So please, stay safe, There is an end to everything, including the pandemic. It has it's own timeline too.