I am supposed to be working on something. I am supposed to be writing something down. There is no deadline, except in my mind. I need to get going on it. I wake up at 6am as I always do, to meditate and journal.
But in the back of my mind, it’s always there. I have to write.
The details aren’t important.
It’s something I have to do – something important to me (only to me).
No one will know if I haven’t written it. No one will care if I do write it.
Only I care about the writing, and about the result.
I can slink off for days without writing this particular piece, and I am safe from the eyes from others. As I haven’t shared with anyone else what I am writing.
I spend the morning, making my bed, cooking, eating, watching British murder mysteries on Netflix. Finally, it comes to a point, mid-morning, that I could potentially sit down and write. It is about 1045am.
I have wasted enough time, in procrastination.
I know what I am doing. I am avoiding the writing. I am avoiding the work. I am self-sabotaging.
Instead of sitting down to write, I decide to go to yoga. It is a Level 2 class, so I hope it will stir something up in me, enough so that I would come back and write.
The class does stir me up, but also tires me out.
I come back and I need to take a nap. Another 3 hours gone.
It is now 2pm. Now I am hungry. I need to eat. I haven’t eaten in a while.
It isn’t an excuse. I’m genuinely starving. I eat something rubbish and I watch some more murder mystery while I do so.
Another hour flits by. Procrastinating some more.
Gosh, I really panic now. I haven’t done any real work today. All I have done is sustain my body through food, and movement.
It is 4pm now.
I have been awake for 10 hours now, and I haven’t written a single word yet.
In my heart, I know I should start now. It’s the starting that’s hard. Once I start, it will be easy. The words will flow.
But in my mind, I decide to procrastinate further. I start browsing one of my favourite clothing stores online. I see nothing that tempts me. Nothing interests me. I’m bored.
Maybe a walk down to the lake would help stir things up? Maybe a chat with a friend would help get the juices flowing? Maybe reading a favourite book would help me get some ideas?
I’m sitting on my couch at 430pm.
My belly’s full. My body’s been worked at. I am not thirsty, or hungry, or sleepy. I don’t need to buy anything. I already have everything I could need. I am bored of the murder mystery on Netflix.
Nothing holds my interest.
Then, I know what I need to do. Once, I get to the point of no return, I open up my browser where I like to write, and I write.
I write the first word. It’s the hardest one to write. I write it and I delete it right away.
I write the second word. It seems to be a little bit better. I keep it as is.
I write the third, fourth, fifth words, and they flow.
I forget to count the words. The writing pours out of me.
I procrastinated all day and finally at the end of the day, I write the words that have been tearing to get out of me all day.
It was a miserable sort of day if you think about it. I loved and hated every moment of it. I knew what I had to do, but instead of being a professional about it, I stalled.
I did everything I could to keep me from writing that first word. Once, I started writing though, I couldn’t stop.
But it didn’t matter how many words I wrote. I had conquered my procrastination for another day. At least I had produced something.
After all of that miserable waiting and knowing that I was waiting to write, I did write.
Another day conquered.
Tomorrow, I don’t want to repeat today. I promise myself I shall start writing at 11am.
I know I shall probably fail.
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