I rarely procrastinate.
The Man finds this terribly annoying. He’ll wake up at 9 a.m. on the weekend, veg in front of the T.V. or computer for two hours while I sleep (I love sleep more than air I think). I’ll wake up, plop down on the couch, and start rattling off my to-do list.
“I need to wake up!” he’ll say.
“You’ve been awake for two hours.”
“Don’t you need two hours to wake up?” he’ll ask.
No. I don’t. Why put off for later what you can do now?
And yet when it came to writing that book I’ve always wanted to write, I procrastinated. Even when I knew I HAD to write it.
Partly this was out of fear. (Psych majors are all yelling a collective Duh.)
Part of it was perfectionism—not wanting to take the test before I had studied.
But most of it was fear.
Do I think my story’s stronger for it? Yes.
Do I think it’s the most productive way to build a writing career? Absolutely not.
Do I think I’ve used my allotment of statements starting with “Do I think” for the month? Most definitely.