A Completely Unnecessary Meditation on Procrastination
I’m a writer.
I write for a living.
Compared with many other writers, I do pretty well.
I don’t charge per word, nor by the hour.
I name my price and my clients usually pay it.
Sometimes I ask for a revenue share; sometimes my clients say yes.
I work from home.
Right now, that’s on the side of a mountain, about a thousand feet above Boulder, CO.
Sunsets usually cast a warm glow onto the town below.
(Although the storm clouds now rolling in are looking biblical.)
The dog that lives here isn’t mine, but she’s a loyal companion.
Life is pretty good.
I can’t really complain.
I mean, I really shouldn’t complain…
I don’t want to complain…
But for Pete’s sake, I’m going to.
“About what?” you ask.
Well, I’m not one to borrow without attribution.
In fact, the very thing against which I’ve got a mind to lodge a formal complaint has been subject to a litany of grumbles, gripes, and grievances by those much more skilled than me at articulating thoughts into words.
To see what I mean, just google “Writers who hate writing.”
History is filled with us, self-flagellating, pen- and key-wielding masochists.
From James Joyce, who described writing as: “The most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives.”
To Dorothy Parker, who instructed, “If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style…
“…The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy.”
Or Dorothy Parker again, this time more pithy: “I hate writing.”
It seems no writers actually like writing.
Hell, Stephen Pressfield reached legend status for having written a whole book on the phenomenon, “The War of Art.”
And if you’ve ever gone head-to-head with his faceless enemy Resistance, you know his position is not-at-all hyperbolic.
Anyway, what the hell am I even saying.
I’m not dictating this into a voice-to-speech app. I’m typing. Each of these words. That one. and those too.
An untrained eye might confuse this for writing.
So why am I doing it?
Because it isn’t really writing.
It’s a rebellion.
The latest piece I’ll be paid for is currently sitting in my Evernote–half-finished, without an ending.
Every minute I spend here, typing out nonsense, is another claim to victory.
And now, tallying up the score, it seems I’ve won. I’m ready to hit post and be done with it.
My right brain basks in satisfaction.
Yet, even now, my left brain wonders,
When I’m up til past midnight, fulfilling on my writer-for-pay duties, will it even matter?
I write stuff like this occasionally, when inspiration strikes.
Sometimes I post it publicly, but mostly not.
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