Sunday Snippet: The Writer as Procrastinator Edition

I think I’ve mentioned it before but in case you don’t know, I’ve become a world-class procrastinator—I can do something else better than anyone anywhere. I’ve passed amateur status and have just recently gotten my professional standing. Don’t even try to take me on this one, I’ll beat the socks off you every time.

For instance, yesterday, after we drove home from the lake, I procrastinated beautifully about cutting back the last of the pampas grass. I found something more important to do (read “sat on the sofa reading for pleasure” here) until it was time to start supper. The to-do list I made while we drove home was really pretty short since we didn’t get home until after lunch—quick yard work, cleaning the two and half bathrooms in my house, scrub the kitchen floor, start laundry. Did any of those chores get done? Nope… well, I did start laundry, but most of the afternoon, I was reading, or as my dear friend, Lani Diane Rich puts it—absorbing narrative. It’s something we writers must do.

Years ago, beds were made, floors were scrubbed, furniture was dusted, cupboards were filled with healthy food, and the house was always tidy. Husband never came home to a living room cluttered with Son’s toys—nope, we had clean-up time every afternoon at 4:30 p.m., complete with a cutesy little song that I used to encourage the kid to help me put away the playthings. Son’s little freckled face was scrubbed, supper was on the table, and I was put together, hair done, make-up applied. All that was missing were the apron and the pearls. Reading and writing were rewards for getting all those other things completed.

These days, with a retired Husband, who enjoys being retired more than just about any one I know, the sense of urgency about much of any kind of chores in my house is pretty darn low. Sometimes the breakfast dishes are still in the sink when I go out to the kitchen to think about supper. I’m often still in my jammies and a sweater at noon, unshowered, disheveled from running my fingers through my hair as I write, because it seems that the writing is taking so much of my attention and time right now.

I run dialogue in my head while I do other tasks—talking to myself while I work in the yard or cook or do dishes or dust. Well, not actually talking to myself, my characters are talking to each other. And you know, that’s what’s really at the root of the procrastination about the rest of my life—the novels. Writing.

Lately, it seems that on days I don’t have an editing gig going (I never procrastinate about work), everything takes a back seat to writing—laundry, cleaning, yard work, grocery shopping—all the things I’d taken such pride in once upon a time have been set aside as I release the people in my head. Now, I sit at the computer for hours, forgetting to eat lunch, ignoring texts, typing furiously as those insistent characters pound at the door of my mind.

So here’s the question, mes amies. Is it okay to blame the need to write for not getting anything else accomplished during the day? Should I wear the badge proudly? Have the t-shirt made: Writer = Procrastinator? Tell folks who ask what I’m doing, “I’m writing, as in I’m not doing [fill in the blank here, weeding, cleaning, laundry…}”? Or do I allow myself to feel guilty because the world in my head often takes precedence over the world I actually live in? Discuss…

Gratitude for This Week: A fabulous writing retreat with Liz; Some days of sunshine; Time at the lake with Mo; tulips are popping up–soon they’ll be blooming; Huge No Kings turnout yesterday!

Stay well, speak out when you are able–it’s how we’ll save our democracy, always choose kindness, and most of all, mes amis, stay grateful,

Oh, by the way, Make It Real is still just 99 cents everywhere e-books are sold! If you love a fake dating romance that turns into true love, nab your copy before April 14!