I am a pro at crastinating. We all are to some extent, but I think I’m up there. Kobe Bryant level shit. Each week as this thousandish word, Monday morning, self imposed deadline stares at me starting on Wednesday, I begin my laundry list of effort avoidance. I’ll do anything to keep from having to clack away on my keyboard with my dumb hunt and peck typing. Is the dishwasher empty? What about the filter in the dishwasher? Should I reorganize the dishes? How about the drawer of random crap? It should be deeply considered and at least partially cleaned. Oh, let’s call mom, she’d love to hear from me. And the second we start the call she’ll have a sense. Why is he talking for so long? “You’re quite chatty tonight honey.” Yeah that’s because I have a blank google doc staring at me expectantly like a tired barista who could give two shits what my order would be, but knows that they’re one customer from going on break. The doc stares at me, waiting for words. Just start. Just type. You actually love writing. No. Not yet. I’m not ready.
I’ll do anything to keep from having to write this page and a half that gives me most of my joy for the week. This collection of words is my favorite thing, yet I’m going to do everything in my power to not write it right now. I should vacuum, or clean the vacuum, or clip my finger nails, then vacuum those up, and why are all the rubber bands just sitting at the bottom of that drawer? Where should I put them? Should we start a rubber band ball? No. Focus. You have work to do. Maybe have a drink, loosen up. How about a nibble of a gummy. Maybe that will spark the desire to actually just god damn start. Nope. Nothing can get this engine to turn over right now. Why does it take so much? Why does it feel like I have to rip myself open and pour out some of my actual life force just to write? Really? Are these words so important to me? To anyone? This all seems wildly dramatic for a Substack mainly about memories of trying to get kissed as a teenager and complaining about how my body is just shittier now. But yes, it hurts. The act of creation is torment. No matter how dumb it may be. So don’t make me do it. Don’t make me put on digital paper the thing I desperately want to put on paper. God, how odd this process all is. I should call someone to tell them about it before I write.
Yes, these are the words of a pro crastinator. I’ve been honing my craft for decades. Since I was a child I knew I had this gift. I could put off everything from bed time to all kinds of homework, from writing a thank you note, to simple chores. I was destined for procrastination greatness. Not a bit of schoolwork done until the absolute last minute, after screaming fights, and endless emotional pain doled out to all parents who were just trying to help. I have the power to do every single thing in this great universe other than this one simple task I need to do. “Oh hey look, that plant needs water.”
The word deadline is telling. It is the line in time after which all will be dead. It feels about that dramatic, because nothing other than the genuine threat of death will get me to lift digit one to keyboard and actually write this fucking post that somewhere between 215 and 478 of you will read. Do you know the pain I drag my soul through to get these inane words in front of your tired eyes while you poop on Monday morning? This keyboard is a medieval leech here to suck humours out of me, and you all are plague mask wearing “doctors” in the operating theater observing me to determine whether or not I am possessed by witches. The verdict is in. I am. Witches that waste my time not writing. Curses.
But Monday is a deadline and by god I will not miss it. Although first I should check to see if the dog needs ear drops. She has been scratching, and come to think of it, I need to clean the yard of poop, and I should deadhead that rose bush, if only I knew what that was. Also that watermelon needs to be chopped up, and now might be the best time to text a few high school friends. I’m just reaching out and maintaining male relationships in my 50’s. Don’t judge me. And it’s time to check the feeds, post on substack notes to find a new subscriber who might read this post I’m not writing, and oh look Instagram has Key & Peele clips I’ve seen 1500 times before, but still make me laugh. No, stop. Put down the scroll. Focus and lock in. You are a 51 year old father of two, acting like an 11th grader who has an AP US History assignment to complete during summer vacation. There are 7,238,945 better things to do right now. I refuse to write this Substack that I need to write, that I love to write, that I hate to write, that I love to write.
But after all these years I have come to realize that this may just be the process. This is how it gets done. If we have to rip ourselves open, or maybe less dramatically, just pick this scab and bleed a bit, this is what we must go through. This is the job. The steps we must take. The dumb pain seems necessary. We must put it off, because it is suffering, until we simply have no choice but to sit down and do it. And somewhere in that pressure cooker is the actual recipe we want to make. Somewhere right before the impending deadline cripples us we barf a little barf out into the world just for you. So here you go. Fine I’ll do it. I’ll type this up. Wait, let me light a candle first to help me set the mood.
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