Writers: This Is Your Brain On Procrastination
I’m going to go to a coffee shop and write the story that’s been sitting in my brain for months. I’ve only eeked out about two paragraphs, but those two paragraphs are gold.
*reads two paragraphs*
I’m going to change it all when I get to that coffee shop. But first, I need to wash the wine glasses that are sitting in my sink. It’ll take a little extra time because they’re really fragile, so I’ll have to use my hands. I have fat fingers so I can be clumsy. Since I’m in the kitchen, I can bring the iPad in with me because INNOVATION created a magnetic case for it, so I can smack it on the refrigerator. I should watch something educational, like Nova or Planet Earth.
Let’s be real, I’m watching The Office. Or Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. That show has really good writers. Which is exactly what I’m going to be when I finish these wine glasses, this episode, and the Instagram video of me dancing to send to my friend for her birthday.
These are necessary things that must be done, and thank goodness I got a college degree to do so.
Who’s paying for my Netflix account? Shoot I broke the wine glass.
One more broken wine glass. Another one was broken by my husband a few weeks ago after we had some people over for a small party. It was late, I was tired and a little tipsy, and I was wearing a skirt that felt like a lasso pulling me at my midsection. I heard the small crack of the glass, and a dragon rose inside my chest like Eragon, a Balrog, a Chinese Fireball, or some other fictional scaly beast that was ingrained in my brain as a homeschooled kid. I spat words of anger and frustration and how could yous. My husband, understandably, replied with: “It’s just a wine glass.” But at that point I was sitting on the floor and couldn’t be bothered with excuses.
My husband is pretty great. He always encourages me to write which is what I should be doing right now. Or rather, WRITE now. My finger is bleeding from breaking this glass.
We’re out of band-aids. Wouldn’t it be such a triumph to create a product whose brand name becomes the nominal name for every other attempted brand? Band-Aids. Kleenex. Coke. Nobody asks for a healing adhesive strip or a disposable handkerchief. Oreos. Rocky Road. Pants.
These pants are too tight. It’s going to be distracting while I’m trying to write. I’ll just put on leggings. Are leggings pants? Remember when that was a big issue that women talked about? Glad that we’ve moved on to things like equal pay and whether Ariana Grande would be a good friend or not. Equal representation is important, too. No taxation without representation, right? So maybe women shouldn’t be taxed if they aren’t treated equally in the workforce! Wait, that’s not how it works. What would Washington have done?
I’m digressing into the ground. How does that song go again? Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Adams, Jackson, blablablablablablablablabla FILLMORE, PIERCE, BUCHANAN.
I doubt those three knew that their legacy would be the punchline of a song I learned in 6th grade.
Wrapping my finger in a paper towel and tying a rubber band around it will work for now. The people in the coffee shop might think it’s weird, but I live in New York. There’s a man that does hawk calls on the corner two blocks from my apartment. Homemade band-aid is nothing.
I’m walking out the door. The hallway on my floor smells like tuna fish are smoking weed, so I hurry to the elevator. It’s dark outside. There’s a couple of cats that are sitting on the sidewalk looking like they have more secrets than I do (which is probably true).
I’m going to dinner with friends in an hour, so by the time I walk to the coffee shop, get coffee, settle in, it’ll practically be time to leave.
I can just imagine myself writing in my head. The things I would write look and sound pretty stupendous in my head. I’m hungry.