Sometimes I’m amazed at how much writing I get done considering all the procrastination I do. Seriously. I hate house-work but I’ll be all over that dust if I know I’ve got to get some writing done. Take right now, for example. I should be working on my novel (and I will be…in just a few minutes), but instead I’m writing a blog post.
I’ve come to see this procrastination as part of the writing process, a way to start collecting my thoughts, working up the courage to face the blank screen, or the sentence I left unfinished yesterday.
Some of my writerly friends have mentioned writing and “fun” in the same sentence and, I’ve gotta tell ya, I don’t get it. Maybe I’m just pouring way too much into this novel, but I am a festering boil of anxiety every…single…goddamned…time. My stomach churns, my palms get a little sweaty. I get that heavy, painful feeling in my chest (it’s not a heartache; I checked). Now, I’ve done some research and from what I understand, this isn’t a new concept. Writers get anxious and anxious writers procrastinate.
I wonder how many paragraphs I can write about procrastination before I dive into that book I’m writing?
Shit. I guess I should get to it now. From what I understand, people hate reading long blogs and this has dragged on long enough. Alright. I’m going in. TTYL.