The Diary of a Procrastinator
My will to write vs my desire to skive is the universe’s true infinity war.
This is not my first blog ladies and gentlemen. I have been scribbling down my thoughts for public consumption with the presumption of profundity since Windows Live Spaces. I was taking on culture prior to Youtube (putting up and) taking down videos. I mean they were cringing, terrible takes but that’s by the by — the point is that I have been out here.
And yet writing doesn’t initially get any easier for me. The idea of submitting writing to a collective project such as Wakanda Social Club seemed a straightforward one. My various groupchats and twitter congregation were being peppered daily so it’d be easy enough just to expound on the takes and tap out my ideas a couple of times a week wouldn’t it? Kind of — it’s a lot easier to just reach for a meme with all its self-contained context and meaning. Tweets and groupchats are salt and pepper though, in a time when the world needs seasoning.
It took me a while to put together the dry rub for this piece — writing always feels like a chore until I’m doing It. But here I am; words bursting forth adding flavour here and there; packing in more punch than a packet of Jamie Oliver’s deliciously appropriated jerk rice nonsense.
But as I said; this isn’t my first blog — there have been many. Some years ago an aborted project with another a friend of mine saw me in a similar writing rut. This is an account of my struggle to get my pen moving again.
“why am I like this?”
This is the diary of a procrastinator, written in a bid to break my lifelong habit of coming up with good idea then doing as little as possible with it. After three weeks of hiding from my obligations, with deadlines tumbling by both left and right like lampposts past a moving car — I asked, why am I like this?
Friday — Idea Day (“Keen”): I said I would write a blog with Tom. Or write stuff on his blog — one of the two. It is a great idea. I need to write more lest my turn of phrase wither and my irony-cloaked rejoinders lose their stealth. There’s only so much you can say you are “a writer” until you actually have to prove to someone that you actually can. “Everyone’s a writer though” — if I had a penny for every time I had heard that then I’d still have less than one pound but I reckon I’d be chomping happily on some king-size confectionery. “Go on then Tom, that sounds good. Keen” I blurted, overly confident in the past deeds of my now-emaciated pen hand. I’d have something for him in five days when I came back from Whitstable I said. “No you won’t” my girlfriend chimed as I hung up.
Saturday (+8 days post “Keen”): Eight days later post-Whitstable, I remembered what I had agreed to. Tom is a general good sort and I didn’t want to let him down for no good reason. So I sketched out some ideas for basic post topics I could knock out on a weekly basis, and happy with what I had come up with, I locked and loaded Netflix. Mac firmly closed, I had triumphed over apathy and no one was going to stop me toasting this success with my man Don Draper.
Thursday (+13 days post “Keen”): Five days later I saw Tom again at birthday drinks for my flatmate. His was an Estrella, mine was a pint of shame and regret at my failing to deliver after a fortnight. He didn’t say anything about it but beneath his glugs of Spanish deliciousness I could sense resentment. It was hard to tell; I was squinting from the horizon after my half of the party had been ejected from the establishment because the birthday boy couldn’t hold his ale and “it’s a Thursday night and we have neighbours”. I have pride though — tomorrow.
Friday (+14 days post “Keen”): I can’t start writing tonight, regardless of the fact I’m staying in and watching Batman vs Superman against all received advice, warnings, reviews and previous Ben Affleck performances. I was literally watching the last thing on earth and a blog didn’t cross my mind. Besides, no one puts up their first post on a Friday do they?
Sunday (+16 days post “Keen”): Not a chance. Haven’t even been to sleep after the well-known tradition that is the rugby league Challenge Cup Final bank holiday all-dayer that we started yesterday midway through the second half of the game. And today is carnival Sunday. Man nuh run di ticklers pon laptop before a likkle carnival whine.
Thursday (+20 days post “Keen”): Tom has liked my Twitter post about going to Malawi tomorrow for the first time in 15 years. A bit passive aggressive, I’m now refusing out of principle. FUCK OFF TOM I HAVE LITERALLY BEEN UP TO MY EYES IN REAL STUFF. I DON’T LIVE FOR YOU. YOU AREN’T EVEN PAYING ME.
Saturday (+22 days post “Keen”): I have a funeral tomorrow. I should have written that post.
Monday (+24 days post “Keen”): Stricken without data or TV, and having already eaten one of a strict two proper meals a day a mere hour ago, I’m writing. Pass me that laptop. Sick of it. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW TOM? YOU HAVE RUINED MY FUNERAL TRIP TO MALAWI, A PLACE I HAVE VISITED ONCE IN 30 YEARS. AND NOW MY RELATIVES THINK I HAVE SHAMED THEM BY CRASHING OUT 1,800 WORDS ON MY MACBOOK INSTEAD OF PRAYING WITH A MINISTER FOR THE THIRD TIME TODAY AND SIXTH TIME IN THREE DAYS BECAUSE I’M TOO SHOOK TO TELL THEM GOD AND I AREN’T NICE LIKE THAT.
There will never be a good time for me to write or be creative. It hangs over me heavily like sagging, clogging clouds waiting until the most painful moment to drench me in my own drab inferiority. But I do know I like the process, I like the outcome and I know I’m pretty good at it — the sense of impending dread isn’t real. If I write immediately it’s gone, if I schedule in time and write without thinking it is gone.
And if I take control, I don’t have to come up with creative fake diaries and humorous yarns parsed with mistruths to explain why I nearly let down a friend, client or myself. It just gets done.
On the 24th day, the first time I actually tried to sit down and write anything, something deep within me delivered. There’s a lesson in there.
