I could conquer the world, if I could just get around to it. I hate that I procrastinate. This time, I procrastinated with Christmas gifts. I had this awesome plan to put together a book for my family about the family ranch. I would combine my grandfather’s short stories about the ranch with family photos and use one of those nifty and fairly priced websites to create a “professional” book. I came up with this idea at Thanksgiving.
The non-procrastinating family (courtesy o' Shutterfly)
And from Thanksgiving until today, I avoided it. I let it creep around in the back of my mind like a rat infestation. But I did nothing to fix the problem. This makes me a bad person and I know it. (In my defense, I am trying to make a living writing & teaching & noveling, which takes up lots o time.)
Nonetheless, I valiantly tried to find a place that could make me a photo book by Christmas. This is America, damnit! The land of Capitalism and Opportunity. A mere photo book by Xmas should be more than possible. Let me give you my money! …Somebody? …Anybody? Is there anybody out there with a printer and a cash register?
After a day of searching, the answer is apparently not. So I changed strategies. Who needs the Internet to make a book, anyway? I could make one myself. Using paper. And thread. Or something.
A quick Internet search on “easy bookbinding” found the above instructional video. The dinky music and 5-year-old instructor fit both my situation and skill level. But the question is, will my family (any family?) appreciate a book bound by ribbon as a gift from an adult?
So the real question is this: Do I give a place holder gift and order the book now (Thus inviting derision but delivering superior quality)? Or do I try to hand bind 10 books with ribbon or some other YouTube concoction?
PS. The word count on my novel is 48,507. I need to get a move on that as well.
Often my writing takes me to new and exciting places. Those places usually involve celebrities, foreign travel, free food, or a combination of the three. But tonight, it takes me as far as the kitchen table, where I am typing my little heart out. This is what I signed up for, right? Writing is the very core essence of what it means to be a writer, which is indeed what I yearn to be. If so, then why must I fight the desire to surf the Internet every five minutes?
I don’t get writer’s block … well, at least not in the traditional sense. You know, the anguishing combat against a blank page, the tossing and turning, the sweating, the screaming, the bleeding, you know, the classic version of writer’s block.
I also don’t get insomnia, which has much the same symptoms.
I solve both problems using one–though no necessarily good–solution. If I ever get a feeling that I might have trouble sleeping and/or writing, I simply avoid the bed/pen until I can stay awake/avoid my editor no longer.
While this strategy has indeed solved the insomnia/writer’s block problem, it has also brought on a new (and arguably worse) problem of bedtime inflation/procrastination. It’s kinda like bringing in cats to end a mice problem and then dogs to end a cat problem and then cougars to end a dog problem and then elephants to end a…
PS. As an example, here is what I did last night instead of writing/sleeping (notice how I apply the same intense concentration to all activities, not just authoring):