Yesterday I mentioned that the first step to writing my novel was to procrastinate. If you’re my mom (and, let’s be honest here, with the number of readers my blog gets so far you probably are) you’re probably shocked that I procrastinated.
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.