I studied theatre in college, but I minored in the art of procrastination. The best soul-searching letters could only be written in the wee hours before a paper was due. What better time to clean my side of the dorm room but before an exam? The little matters that were of no consequence to me all week now became the focus of my attention. It was imperative that I correct all of them before I could possibly consider the notion of beginning to study.
I understand how this happens as a young adult. We are evolving into fully-fledged selves, still exploring priorities, time management and self-discipline. But now? I’m too old for this shit. Just get it done, I tell myself. And still it sits.
This would bother me less if the object of my delay was not something I actually want to do. Take writing a blog entry, for instance. One might not guess this, based on how infrequently I post, but I’m doing this for fun. I want to contribute to it on a regular basis. In fact, I often talk to my sister about increasing the number of posts per month. The result: I haven’t posted in two months.
At work, I often force myself to create false deadlines in order to complete some inane piece of business I dread. That’s work, though, not life. This, as I type, is happening for no reason other than because I choose it. In which case, what took me so long to get around to it?
Today I am hunkering down in the heart of the procrastination beast and I want to throw stones at it. Take that!
Except.
I know why I put things off. You know why I put things off. Things feel insurmountable. I don’t know where to begin. I am afraid the end result will be a disappointment. All that work will have been for nothing. Yada yada yada.
Oh, who’s there? Fear of failure? Ah, hello there, old chum. I’ve been waiting for you. Jump in, we’re going for a ride. Destination: the next thing on my Want-To-Do list. On the way there, I’ll tell you about this idea I’ve had for a children’s story...
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