“I’d ask for a nudey, but I know you’re writing.“
The digital age made the virus somewhat bearable.
I had just finished chasing my dog around the yard. Before that I was totally avoiding writing my novel, which was due in six days.
It’s a part of the creative process, I’d tell myself. It wasn’t. It was a lie. A lie created by my need to procrastinate. This was going to cause a catastrophic amount of stress in a few days, but I didn’t care. I was avoiding the writing now.
I hated writing with a purpose. I need to write to get all the crazy, weird and chaotic thoughts that bounced around my head – out. They often didn’t come in a linear story structure. My writing was a jumbled mess of random thoughts and rants. The fact that I had written half a novel, albeit complete shit in need of a major rewrite, astounded me.
I’m the George R. Martin type. It takes me forever to write. The time it takes to write the perfect story takes time. Years even. Another lie procrastination tried to convince myself of. Anything to not write.
The procrastination was strong today.
I don’t even know if George R. Martin is a good writer. I haven’t read a sentence of his work.
Before Game of Thrones turned into the phenomenon that it briefly was, I was talking to my nerdy friends about the books. The only reason I stayed in the conversation was because there was a cute brunette giving me eyes. So, I thought I was telling a white lie when I said I read the books. A quick trip to the bathroom and a Wikipedia synopsis of the books kept me in the conversation. She was impressed.
But now I get roped into conversations about Game of Thrones theories from the books. I have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about. Like most people’s political beliefs, it was mostly regurgitated comments from peoples of the internets. I just add to the long list of my white lies and hobbies I adapted to impress women.
Thank God for my friends’ politeness, because I don’t even believe half the bullshit that comes out of my mouth.
And just like that, the words are flowing. I am still avoiding doing the work that I actually need to do.
At least I’m writing something, I tell myself, knowing that I wasn’t going to finish editing my novel in time.