Procrastinating

That difficult second book.  Yikes.

It’s a phrase that has been rattling around in my head.  I’ve sometimes heard other people muttering about it, and in fact the current Victorian Writer magazine (Jun-Jul 18) has a great article about all of those misgivings and expectations that follow a first book.  Kate Mildenhall’s article, Finding Home, touches on many of the thoughts that rattle around in the writer’s brain.  Self-doubt.  Crippling expectations.  Thinking everything you write should go straight into the shredder.

All these insecurities undermine the entire creative process and become a ball and chain that you keep dragging around the house.

When I’m not writing, I often wonder why I’m avoiding it, especally on those days that I’ve set aside specific time and told people that I won’t be checking my phone, or watching anything on Youtube, however cute or amusing.  So don’t bother sending me the link.  Really.  Don’t.

I’ve filled the fridge.  I’m ready.  It’s raining like the second flood is coming, and I have nowhere I need to be.  But.  BUT.  There’s still an endless list of things that seem to be more pressing.  Like a buzzard, I circle the desk, but just can’t find a way to land.  So I go and make some more tea, return to my chair, line-up everything into nice geometrically precise patterns, put on a load of washing.  Then there’s that fluffy jumper I always like to wear when I write in winter.  I have to find it, and put it on.   As if the words are somehow  stored within the wool, and will miraculously fall out onto the screen when I wear it.

Writing has enabled me to master the art of procrastination, becoming entangled in all sorts of urgent household tasks, errands, or administration that just can’t wait.  (Even taking the time to air these thoughts about the evils of housework is a subtle form of avoidance.)

If I could just get something down in black and white I would feel like less of a fraud.  But why is that?  Does a tennis player doubt his ability because he didn’t hit a few balls today?  He doesn’t lose his skill overnight.  It has been a cumulative process; years of training.  Taking a day off doesn’t mean they have to give back all their trophies.

Yet, if you talk to most writers, it’s a common theme.  I can only call myself a writer if I’m writing.  My self worth relates directly to the amount of words I successfully lasso and wrestle onto the page every day.

Anyway, I’m off to make dinner now, and then catch-up on some tv shows for the evening.   And if anyone asks me why I’m not writing, I have the age-old fallback.  I’m too busy at the moment.  I’m washing my hair.