I sat down to write this two hours ago.
But instead of getting it done in a swift 40 minutes as intended, I have – for want of a better phrase – been fannying about like a fool instead.
So far I have: eaten a net of chocolate Christmas pudding balls I found in the cupboard, walked into the bathroom, sniffed a bodywash I am more than familiar with and walked out again, looked at pictures of cats on Twitter, deleted text messages my phone has ample room to store… The list goes on.
I tell myself that nailing the art of procrastination confirms my place in the world as a writer.
We’ve been friends for some time now, me and the P word. That is, if a friend is someone who distracts you from your work by persuading you to buy Steps album tracks from Amazon.
And if it only happened when I was trying to avoid doing something I dislike then I would understand.
For example, when I decide to test how many Jaffa Cakes I can stomach without being sick at the same time as the dishwasher needs unloading, I can at least see the value in my evasion. (The answer is 10, BTW). Or when the bin needs taking out at the precise same moment as I wish to see what my hair would look like if I moved my parting to the other side, I don’t see why I shouldn’t give it a go. (It looks very similar actually, if a little sticky-uppy).
But it also happens when I am doing things I love. Like this. And yet I still continue to mess around rather than whacking words together in a timely fashion without gaining half a stone and a dodgy hairdo along the way.
And this is because procrastination happens both when you’re avoiding doing something you don’t want to do, and when you can’t quite figure out how to do a task you enjoy as well as you’d like to do it.
My distraction potential peaks when I am on the cusp of coming up with a good line or figuring out how my love of 90s pop is in any way related to the job at hand. So instead of tearing my hair out, I find a weird looking insect in the garden to stare at or a forum discussing the pros and cons of online grocery shopping to get my teeth into.
But if I am ever going to conquer the big P then I need to choose one of two options: either gain some self-control, set a timer, and don’t move until each and every word is written; or resign myself to a life of gluttony, youtube clips of people slipping on ice, and zero achievement.
I definitely know the answer to this one. But hang on a sec, I’ve just seen a #cakeorbiscuit Jaffa Cake debate happening on Twitter and I have got to get involved.
I’ll come back to this in a bit.
Charlotte Reeve lives in London, spends too much time on Twitter, and blogs about all things lady related – boys, weddings, being too cold… etc. She likes staying in, sitting down, and watching Coronation Street – and occasionally going out dancing, as long as nobody touches her. You can read more of Charlotte’s thoughts on her blog Nothing Good Rhymes With Charlotte
