I am a procrastinator by nature. My grandfather used to say that's what our last name meant in Irish. Some percentage of that is probably true. The Hannans love a good story.
In college, I did an independent study in which I wrote a novella that's sat on a hard drive for the past six years. The six or so months I spent working on it were the only uninterrupted block of time I've spent writing fiction. I've written in fits and starts since. The lion's share of the work has been seen only by me.
What stopped me from writing? Several things: fear, rationalization and procrastination. My three demons. I'll visit each in turn. But today, it's procrastination.
I thought that the fuel to write would come with time, which is about as stupid as thinking a fire will build and light itself. Maybe I needed to travel more, I thought. Or to move. Maybe getting out more with friends would give me what I needed. Or maybe I had to have some experience or realization that would inspire me.
Until then, I was going to wait for it. Whatever it was.
I'd still be waiting. I decided to start instead.
I write most of these the night before they get posted. I'm tired. And very sore from a pretty intense kettlebell/body weight circuit I did this morning. It's late for me right now. I have yet to log my hour on the book. It would be easy to say, I'll log that hour in the morning and cash in on the sleep tonight. But I know I won't. I'll wake up, and life will take over.
I won't let myself procrastinate anymore. I won't let myself kill the momentum that I've worked so hard to generate. I might sit down and write absolute shit for an hour, but at least the work got done. At least the streak continues.