Today is the first of September, bringing the turmoil of the start of a new academic year. Stationery stores are full of eager acquisitive children and concerned parents. Shoeshops are busy with purchasers. Even the weather is in a quieter mood.
Meanwhile here, at home, we are co-ordinating diaries, calendars and life for the months to come and then the troublesome thoughts start to arrive . . . not only Where's that red Pomodoro timer? but the more serious worries: What have I achieved? What did I actually complete? And the follower-ons such as What am I going to do now? What writing do I want to work on next?
There are plenty of ideas and stuff: the never-ending tome that I really would like to finish, a short story project, a collection of poems that needs fattening, some non-fiction titles I need to research and fiction I must read, as well as a monthly blog, and the daily journal and . . . and . . . and . . . and then there’s the eternal problem.
PROCRASTINATION!
I, by way of procrastination, read a bit about that subject, so I'm start by focusing this post on the aforementioned Tome, which has been hanging around for too many years. I have more questions to ask.
What level of priority does this manuscrip have in my life? Am I avoiding the m/s because of its complexity? Am I having problems choosing what work needs to done on the m/s? Do I need a more sensible, well-structured completion of the plot? More research about historical aspects of the setting? A deep analysis of the structure? A culling of words and scenes? And on and on.
Alongside, with a loud metallic clang in the mind, comes my worry about managing that overwhelming list of tasks - as well as the fear that I no longer have the skills to do what must be done, or even to create a story worth reading. Is there honestly any urgency about this Tome, this fantasy, Penny? No publisher is interested.
Do I actually have the energy for self publication? Or even the personality needed for such an idea to succeed? Why am I even spending time on it in the first place?
For a while, I persist, and a few happy past author experiences creep into my mind. I remember working on projects and events that went well, and where I made genuine progress. Then I start to think of the times when - for many reasons - things didn’t work out or went wrong. Is it honestly worth starting on something that will be failure, that nobody will want or care about? Who have I thought I am, anyway? A writer, no. An imposter, yes. And a moaning groaning one at that. Where’s the joy? The belief?
And this is when I, the procrastinator, any procrastinator, sitting at the desk, is in danger. There is, a voice inside me suggests, a feel-good alternative to working on this wretched writing. Surely, there must be something smaller and easier to spend my time on? Some action or activity that will actually be of use to society, that will please people and be better worth the time than – sshhh! - this wretched dragged-out thing that I am half-bored with already?
In that unsettled moment, the ideas come roaring in: all the distracting, dangerous, doing-good rewarding alternatives. The washing still stuck in the machine. The shopping that needs doing before the rush. This domestic task. That domestic task. A good home-made cake that will be higher up life’s scale, surely, than a boring unwieldy manuscript, Penny?
Then the small distractions start muttering at me too. The phone on the desk, bringing news, breaking the tension? Those Whatsapps I heard pinging in? The various emails that really do need reading, and maybe responses too? Suddenly I hear the chattering of social commitments that need my attention: arrangements that need doing for others, not simply for my own sake. Now I am feeling anxious, imagining the host of people who need to be contacted, spoken to, visited, and to whom, mostly, my writing work has no relevance or value. Surely this writing lark deserves to be discarded?
And, at this point, in sneak more hard words and sad feelings. You vain imposter, you feeble creature, you upstart crow, you witless podge of a garden pigeon – and, of course, now you’ve mentioned it, there are all the birds in the garden with feeders to fill before the evening meal so I’d better . . . on and on
But, golly gosh, with all this wittering about my work and procrastination, I’ve only just remembered a blog that I simply must write, now, today. The wretched task has been hanging about at the back of my mind for ages, and it’s certainly higher priority than any of my own writing ideas . . .
Enough, enough. So often the dance in the head goes on like this, mental patterns of procrastination going round and round, like one of those Rolodex rotating files from the offices in old films. But I know there are better days as well and my pattern is not always this. I’m hoping, by recognising these thoughts as they arise, to push back at all the distractions and temptations, to organise my days better, and have a more useful Autumn.
See you in October. By which time my project will be well on its way. Won’t it?
Penny Dolan.
NB. This personal account of the ‘cycling’ nature of procrastination came about from information in the book ADHD UNPACKED by Alex Conner and James Brown, which I was reading out of more general interest. I did start on a straightforward post about procrastination, based on the analysis in the book, but the version above seemed more truthful and recognisable to me. Conner and Brown are the Founders of the ADHD Adults Podcast.
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