I had every intention of jotting down a Hemingway quote I’d read once, but of course I didn’t… I thought, I’ll do it later. Of course later never came and I had to google ‘Hemingway refrigerator.’ The quote in question? When asked how he began writing a new novel, Hemingway replied, “First I defrost the refrigerator.” How well I know that feeling. I am the essence of a procrastinator. All around me are things to do:
Tidy up my desk
Organize files
Throw in a load of laundry
Play pacman online
Read a magazine on writing
Leaf through Writer’s Market
Clean out a drawer
Pluck my eyebrows,
Search for a recipe
Check my bank account balance,
Stare out the window
The question, “why I procrastinate”, burns my soul and singes my productivity. I was once asked, is it a fear of success or a fear of failure? My brilliant reply to the deep question, “I don’t know.” I’m still not sure. There are days when I must talk myself into facing the blank page without fear and loathing. Other days I’m so anxious to start writing that I nearly orgasm just thinking about it. I run to the computer and fall into the chair like I’m falling into the arms of a lover. The words flow from my fingertips with ease and grace. That does not happen often and usually when I go back to revise, check, and rewrite the words look strangely different.
Back to procrastination. The procrastinator’s way is to wait for a strike of literary lightning to turn a dull thought into a shining inspiration. It just doesn’t happen that way. The bottom line is what makes me drop the vacuum handle and let it lay in the middle of the floor while I scurry back to the blank page. It suddenly came to me while sucking up cat hair and candy wrappers that if I don’t write it I’ll miss my deadline. If I miss the deadline, the client will be miffed. If the client is miffed, I may lose the gig. If I lose the gig, I may lose the roof over my head. If I lose the roof over my head, I’ll lose my internet access. If I lose my internet access I’ll have problems emailing and getting more jobs.
The moral of the story: Unless I want to be sitting in a box on a warm beach writing on tossed out papers found in the trash with a nubbin of pencil, I can only allow the procrastinator’s way to go so far. At some level being a procrastinator serves me, otherwise, I wouldn’t do it. Now that I’ve spent half the morning putting off writing that article on zen gardens, it’s time to get busy right after I blow dry my hair.
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