Let's get one thing straight off the bat. When it comes to procrastination, I don't just preach to the choir, I AM THE CHOIR. I am the preacher, the pulpit, the pew, I am the friggen CHURCH of procrastination. I figure in another year or two I will make it as a definition under procrastination in Urban Dictionary. But when you are being forced to procrastinate and you can't stand it, there is something seriously F-ing wrong with this picture.
That is what this final weekend before NaNoWriMo has been like for me, a picture that has gone horribly askew, dangling by a nail, about to fall off the wall. What makes this particularly ironic is that I am coming off a two month spell of writers block - finally broke by forcing myself to write. I spent hours staring at a blinking cursor, typing inane crap like:
"He crossed the room and opened the door then slammed it very, very, very, very loudly"
followed by the utterly brilliant
"Don't do that" she said
And finally, after two days, I hit pay dirt. 15k words in a day and half.
Now I feel as if I am on literary fire, a pen with ink made of kerosene, and yet - I am not allowed to strike the match. Yes, this is a painting gone horribly wrong. Creative interruptus, 50,000 words dying to burst forth, imagination held prisoner. And it's driving me mad.
Martin, Opie, Vicky and Bree are screaming to get out! Taylor wants to know who set him up and why he was murdered! His wife wants justice! This book WANTS to be written already!
So why is the calendar being so uncooperative?
I've decided it's revenge. Revenge for all those times I waited an extra hour to do the dishes. Revenge for all those extra days I waited to update chapters and appointments I rescheduled in December and January because I didn't want to go out in the cold. For all the times my daughter ate frozen pizza, the cookies I didn't bake, the Christmas cards from 1997 that are still waiting to be mailed and my wedding thank you cards that never did get mailed in 1990. It's the Gods of doing things in a timely manner, all standing on the Pearly Gates of Calendars, laughing and pointing at me in unabashed glee.
"It's the perfect revenge" They've gathered together, their heads thrown back in the ultimate gloating party - a celebration - because they know, as soon as midnight rolls around and November 1st comes at last, the will to procrastinate will return and the picture will be right as rain once again.