I’m a writer. Sure I am!
Look how much I’ve written for this shitty blood-stained blog!
I’m definitely a writer. I tell people as much on social media. I tweet the fuck out of that fact. I tweeted my nightmares to Joseph Gordon-Levitt!
By the way, did you know social media was a thing?
I had heard of it. Hadn’t used it much.
Now I’m addicted.
Better question. How is my novel coming along?
Working on it. So I say.
But there’s an elephant in the room. I’ve tried shooting, poison, dismemberment, and all the other tools in my murder bag.
It keeps coming back.
I have an undead elephant, all rotted flesh and demanding peanuts… but mostly just demanding my time. It’s harder to kill than my character, (insert name here).
You thought you’d get a sneak peek didn’t you. No. That one’s a secret.
Anyways, that goo-leaking elephant is named…
(There would be a picture of a tree here if I didn’t have such shitty internet connection at the moment. Why a tree? Because trees have trunks… Elephants have trunks…)
My biggest vice as a writer is that bastard elephant. I wish it would flap its ears and fly away but I fear it is here to stay.
Procrastination keeps me from doing the things that are important. Sure, I tell myself the things I’m doing are important. And yeah, to an extent, they are.
Building blog content. Practice at crafting words. Creating connections through social media.
But none of that matters if I am doing all of those things at the expense of my novel.
I can only benefit so much from scouring twitter for hours. Or writing this blog post and saving it for later. (Though I fear I will post it immediately as I am apt to do. I just finished my troll nightmare. I should wait to post this.)
So, what’s my unorthodox solution this time?
In Case You Missed the Last Line, It’s Solution Time
I have tried to be disciplined. Spankings and other assorted varieties of punishment don’t work. That just leads to a different variety of procrastination.
Setting deadlines doesn’t work either. I’m just that bad. I see a deadline approaching. I start to weigh things out. Can I possibly achieve this by the impending deadline?
Fuck that then.
Let’s go flesh out a place or character that no one will see for a decade instead.
So what do I do?
No matter what, I have found that the thing that I do the worst on in a day is that which I set out to accomplish. (My odd brand of self-destructive tendencies will definitely be a topic that comes up again in future posts.)
The voices are screaming at me to get to the point. So, again, what do I do?
I decide what my most important task is. Then I plan to do everything but that.
Put that most important thing at the bottom of the pile. Nine times out of ten, it works. I will go to great lengths to avoid the work I sit down with.
I’m so bad.
Why does it work for me? My novel is intimidating. I care about it. I pour my life-fluids out on its pages. (Interpret life-fluids as you will. Whatever you decide they are, you’d likely be correct.)
By choosing not to focus on it, I have veiled it as something less important. I have made it less intimidating. I have made it fun again.
Now, it’s naughty to write my novel. I’m blowing off “important” work to write it.
Your mileage may vary. I have excellent results with this. Sure you have to trick yourself. If you are a writer, I have faith in you. You can make yourself believe in your own lies.
Just don’t go overboard.
I’ve convinced myself of a lot of things.
A shit ton of things.
And I’m hard to fool.
But I’ll tell you about that fuck-pile of nonsensery some other time.