Procrastination Problems

This evening, I am writing the chapter on procrastination. It says so right there on my color-coded, time sensitive Excel chart. Note: Please refer to the chapter entitled ‘Outlandish Outlining’ located in this book. See? Right there. Job, water aerobics, write chapter on procrastination under the column titled ‘next chapter’. But first I have to go fix dinner. I’m always starving after a swim. I’ll be right back.

There’s that’s better. Two burger patties with cheese and tomato. No bread, no mayo. Those aerobics classes are too expensive to blow. I also put the dishes in to soak and started a load of laundry. Now what was I writing about? Oh yeah, procrastination.

I don’t know why the universe gives writers the talent to create whole worlds in their heads and transfer those worlds through words onto the page (or screen) then puts obstacles in our way. Wait. I have to go move the laundry into the rinse cycle (hand washing my delicates saves on trips to the coin laundry, giving me more time to write).

Okay, I’m back. I really hate cold dish water with hamburger grease floating on top. So once the universe shows us our talents and shows us a way to use those talents for good, it turns evil and addicts us to writing. Because if we don’t write (and when we’re not writing, we’re worrying about not writing and writer’s block), the worlds inside our heads expand until we think we’ll explode if we don’t get them out (I once found a whole cabin on my pillow where it had leaked out of my ear, talk about a hard stain to wash out by hand) but just as the flow gets going … the phone rings.

Sorry. Mom. We all have one but I did hang up … the laundry. Back to expanding heads (not to be confused with the vainglorious (conceited) actions of finally being a published author). For those non-writers out there, think of the urge to write like the urge to have sex. You’re not going to die if you don’t get some but you’ll feel like you want to. If you haven’t had really-good-get-naked-roll-in-the-mud-sex for awhile, your body knows you need it, knows it’s good for you and fun to do. So your body is going to keep putting the pressure on until you’re so horny even the guy downstairs is starting to look good. Ah … the mailman is here.

Now, here’s another problem. The mailman (wonder if he’s married, in a relationship or gay) just delivered three Netflix discs of a television show I’m trying to catch up to the current episode of. That’s nine hours of viewing or nine hours of writing. I might have been able to do my homework in front of the television (Hi Dad) years (decades) ago but I no longer have the attention span to watch television and write at the same time. If I try, it overloads some of the circuits in my brain, the written story doesn’t make sense and I have no idea what’s going on in the show. (And the guy downstairs was getting his mail. Forget what I said about him looking good. Anyone who still reads ‘Happy Hippy Gardening at its Best Magazine’ while living in an apartment with no garden let alone a yard isn’t datable material. Oh, shit. Wonder if he ever checks out my … mail.)

See what I did right there? I procrastinated from my writing by writing something completely off subject. It’s still writing but it doesn’t release the pressure like writing the story does. Equate it with a hand-job orgasm versus naked-sex-in-the-floor-with-a-real-person-while-watching-porn orgasm.

Another great distraction of mine is creating schedules and lists and spread sheets of what I’m supposed to be writing instead of creating schedules and lists and spread sheets. Yet all the-best-way-to-overcome-procrastination-advice suggests you should be organized and keep to a schedule. They never tell you, you have to schedule time and have the motivation to create the schedule that’s going to stop you from procrastinating.

What? Sorry, I was changing all the screen savers and desktop pictures. Speaking of schedules, another way I goof off is by trying to pick a project (all of which are listed, alphabetized, grouped and color-coded). I can’t write the third book in the series until I go back and read the first two and take notes (and wonder what the hell that editor was thinking). I can’t write the second one of another series because nobody understood the first one so I’m sure to lose them completely if I try another one. On and on it goes until I am the one lost. I will confess I have dropped slips of paper with project ideas written (does that count as writing?) on them in a bowl and swear whatever one I pull out will be the one I work on until I finish or die. Shut eyes, reach in, stir, pick, unroll paper and peek. Good. Do that one right there before anything else no matter what … except … first I have to do the research into why the mallard ducks of the Shenandoah Valley no longer migrate because that subject might come up between the two main characters for a whole paragraph halfway through the book. And trust me, research always leads to procrastination. Like the Mallard duck page mentions mating rituals which once again reminds how long it’s been since I had … wow … look at that painting of a duck. My dad would love that for his birthday. Wonder if the artist has a web page?

Weekends are the worst for me. Friday evening, I look out and see forty-eight glorious hours to be creative. Just me and the laptop and a big bowl of popcorn but that popcorn sure would go down nice while watching that movie I’ve been putting off seeing until Netflix sent me a sympathy email. And it is only Friday. I have all of Saturday and Sunday to write. After that one more movie, one more book (because its due date is up and it’s not sympathy cards the library sends) or one more computer game, I come back to consciousness find the weekend has disappeared.

But not this time. This time I’m going to knuckle down (whatever that means … (Hi Mom) … my knuckles are up when I’m typing) and get some real work done. Television, cable, DVD player and VCR remotes (yes, I still have one) are all hidden in four separate hard to reach locations? Check. Phone off? Check. Chores done? Check. Snacks, beverage, cigarettes, lighter and ashtray? All present, loaded and accounted for. Laptop up and running and Internet off? Check. Notes, folders, pens and writing-companion-teddy-bear named Timothy (I don’t know, he just looks like a Timothy) all within reach? Check. Then hop to it.

But it’s too quiet. It’s so quiet I can hear the ice melting in my drink and the fan running in the laptop. It’s so quiet I can hear myself breathing and the thumps and bumps from downstairs (I don’t even want to think about what he could possibly be doing down there to make those noises). So I turn on some rock music. No … too fast and I can’t think for singing along. Maybe some classical. No … too slow and I’m falling asleep (and sounding like Goldilocks). Light rock renditions with no vocals (elevator music)? Perfect except some part of my brain is still singing along but not as loudly as before. (Where the hell did this CD come from anyway?) Now to write … but it’s too hot. So I turn in my chair and open the window. Ah much better but … wait … what is this? I stick my head out the window to find the guy downstairs has driven his beat-up pickup through what tiny yard we do have right up to his dining room window (directly below mine) and he’s unloading bags of potting soil in through the window. Oh cool, a real crime to investigate and think what a great story it will make (if I ever get around to writing it). I lower the laptop lid, switch off the lights, turn off the music and grab my digital camera (that takes videos if I can figure out the right button), wedge myself in the window frame, point the camera and at the last second hope I remembered to turn the flash off.