Procrastination
It’s been raining for three days. The wind blew heavily last night. This morning the children drove off for the first day of the autumn term. The author (who is very fond of his offspring) danced a little jig in the drive and came back into a house that was empty for the first time in six weeks.
Except for the cats, one of whom had been sick on the carpet.
Leave the cat-sick for the moment. Clear breakfast. Brush teeth, shave, make bed, hugging all the time the thought of four quiet morning hours, solid and serene, and nothing but the gentle chatter of the keyboard. After a summer of visits and visitors, excursions and distractions, at last a chance to do some real work!
Eight twenty-five. The bed’s made (as much as it ever is). It’s time to warm up the computer. Press switch, open blinds, let daylight in. Daylight reminds me that there is cat-sick still uncleaned on the carpet. Clean cat-sick. What next? Oh, the washing’s still sitting in the basket, damp and threatening to go mouldy. Can’t leave it like that. Start hanging up washing. Shirt, yes, Jeans, yes, sock, sock, odd sock – yes I know time’s beginning to creep by – sock, tee-shirt, sock, another odd sock – and the computer’s still humming patiently in the corner of the study. But what’s the point of starting something if I’m going to leave it unfinished? Sock, sock, sock. And the cats are beginning to look at me. It’s the sort of look that says, ‘We knew it’. I knew it too.
I knew this would happen, all through the long summer when I was telling myself that if only I could have a clear morning I could get such things done. It’s just ten minutes into the autumn term and already I’m shy of the keyboard. Regimented regime? Hah! And now I must admit that there were clear mornings in the summer – my family arranged them for me – but I found it convenient to use them for things other than writing. All creators are in some sense driven, I suppose. If we were not we would not be creators. It’s just that I seem to be driven by my ability to procrastinate.
And I’m sure I’m not alone. Ask any ten authors what it is they fear most and nine of them will probably say ‘Loss of inspiration’ or something like that. (The tenth will tell you that it’s the call from the agent or publisher who says ‘Look, this latest typescript of yours. I’m sorry, but…’ and yes, that’s true too.) There is something a bit frightening about a blank white screen. Looking at it, you feel a sense of enormous potential. And that potential includes the possibility of failure. A little mental battle has to be fought and won, each day, with that first touch of the keys. I’m catching up on six weeks of mental battle right now.
OK. The washing’s hung. And the blog’s done too. The novel – the real thing – is still waiting. It’s just a screen away. So, then…
Cup of tea?