Whilst washing up at the kitchen sink, I notice the pot of Basil/Parsley/Poison Ivy on the sill in front of me, is wilty. So, lest I forget, I pull off the Marigolds, fill the kettle and top the poor droopy thing up - remembering that the fern-y thing in the living room also needed a drink last time I looked. So while I'm at it I do that as well. And the plants in the fireplace. Which is covered in dust and ash and when was the last time the grate was emptied and the slate polished? Might as well give them a quick once over whilst I'm in here. So, fishing about in the undersink cupboard, back in the kitchen, I notice that the bin needs emptying and the cleaning spray isn't under here, so I must have left it in the hallway. Better have a quick look before I forget. It's by the phone. And there's a message on there which means I can't have listened to it because it's still flashing. And it's a bloody woman with a Terminator voice asking me if I'd like to consolidate all my debts into one easy loan blah blah blah and I'm so incensed with her not being a really nice message from somebody more lovely that when I try to delete the message I actually delete the outgoing message and I have no idea how to re-record a new message and I really need to because of husband's work etc. and if prospective customers call and all they hear is a ranting, sighing, bleating mad baggage then they will NOT be encouraged to leave a message asking him to ring back. I need to find the instruction manual for the phone. Which is in a drawer in the sideboard. No idea which one. But there's a whole drawer-ful of photographs from our Wedding which are flicked through idly, then pored over thoroughly whilst trying to work out where the waist went and the shining dewy bridal glow and then the clock strikes an hour of some description and I also wonder where the hell the past three hours went - I know - a nice cup of tea would be ... well, nice. But when I get into the kitchen there're no cups washed up and for some even stranger reason, the kettle's disappeared.
And I ask myself how come I can't seem to just SIT DOWN AND FINISH WRITING THE BOOK?
... Per-lease.
5 comments:
You're suffering from procrastination-itus, Debs. Classic signs include pairing socks, de-fluffing the tumble dryer, cleaning out the hoover, and even wiping the inside of the kitchen bin. Anything other than actually sitting your arse down and putting fingers to keyboard. Unfortunately, I don't have a cure, but now you know what you've got:)
OMG I could have written this. This is me, one hundred per cent. Maybe we're all the same.
Thanks for the diagnosis, Debs - am guessing this condition is pretty much terminal unless I get my brain re-wired.
Trina - it's good to know I'm not alone!
After I took the boys to school this morning, I cleaned out the hamster cage (a day early) and washed out the ice cube trays. I'm looking for things to do other than writing.
Why do we do this, ladies? Are we all closet perfectionists or are we frightened of writing the Next Big Thing in case it blows the(unpaired) socks off the world?!
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