As an Enneagram 8
, I'm not naturally predisposed to be a sit-around-and-talk-guy. I'm naturally more of a get-er-dun guy. I also tend to not
get things done on time -- or, to be more accurate: I usually hit deadlines, but do so by massive amounts of work at the end, and at great emotional cost to those around me.
My frustration around this has been growing, primarily because the number of friends I have has grown. That is, my procrastination is directly proportional to the number of people I spend time talking to. Today, for instance, I have two conversations scheduled with people -- each will surely go over an hour, even though I am already a day late on a major writing assignment. And the thing is, I love
talking to people. My life (and writing) is immeasurably richer because of the people I've met, a fact that will be abundantly clear in my next book.
Then, yesterday, I ran across this poem by Robert Frost
(a fellow Dartmouth man). It sums up, I think, my feeling, and the emergent ethos:
A Time to Talk
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.