As I write this blog, I have a short story due in 96 hours. I got the prompt a few days ago. I got the inspiration this morning. I can see the opening scene. I can feel the mood. I can hear the ending—a mic-drop kind of moment.
“You’re welcome.” Little Miss Muse was on fire when I sat down to re-read the submission guidelines and begged her to show up and play nice. She showed. Big. Excitement brewed as Little Miss unpacked bottle rockets and her purple glitter bombs.
And then it happened. With 95.5 hours to go. Of those, 32 will be allocated to sleep (or attempting to sleep or recover from not sleeping), and at some point, we need to eat and clean, and there’s a birthday in here for the Hubs and the feline office staff with their unending demands, and it’s the holidays…
So, with the clock ticking nearly audibly in my head, and let’s say we’re realistically able to write 12 of those 95.3 hours, I did the wrong thing.
I left the keyboard.
To do just the one thing, and…
“Come back.” Little Miss begs, her lighter flame licks the tip of the bottle rocket’s fuse.
“It’ll just take a minute.” (The biggest lie we tell ourselves, yes?)
“No, it won’t. Come back.” She uncorks the glitter.
“In a minute. Just changing the laundry around.”
She sighs and collapses over the keyboard.
This happens every time I start to write—new projects, old projects, blog posts, grocery lists. Doesn’t matter. The sound of a wilting purple-winged imp when her misbehaving author will not adhere to the butt-in-chair requirement is unmistakable. “Just kill me now,” she moans into the keys, her wings going limp, tutu sticking up in the air.
In my defense, everything I did to avoid the blank page and that wailing blinking cursor, I needed to do on some level—either practically speaking or “to clear the muck.”
“Your muck has muck.” Little Miss is angry.
“But it’s given us this blog post, which I’m not procrastinating at the moment.”
She rolls her eyes. “You are procrastinating writing by writing. I can’t even with you. I don’t think any other muse on this planet or across ten other orbs has to deal with this.” She flits away from the keyboard, fully aware her services are now on hold. She glares over her shoulder as she flies out of the office. “You know this is why the Tooth Fairy is the Tooth Fairy, right? Her author started behaving like you and she couldn’t even anymore, either. Now she coddles little toothless humans and gathers up their nasty little chompers to avoid fights with a misfiring creative!”
And with that muse-lashing, I’m left alone to my tasks that are not writing, but I leave the list here for you in case you’ve got the equivalent of a wailing cursor and a scary blank page that you need to dodge/avoid/put off/evade.
Before we embark on this journey, we must identify the project to be procrastinated. For me, it’s the Scary Short Story Start. We’ll call it S4 for the sake of the instructions, but you insert your own agony wherever you see S4.
- The dryer buzzes. Leave the blank S4 to switch the laundry. We can’t go around smelling like moldy mildew during the holidays. (After the holidays this is a perfectly acceptable state of being.)
- Write a blog post that has nothing to do with the S4.
- Thirst hits. There’s water in the fridge, but you could use more water in the fridge, so we go get more from the garage.
- A candle would be nice. Dig in the kitchen drawer for the lighter and flick your one-and-only cookie cutter out of the way. That thing’s always in the way. Why do we even have this cookie cutter? We don’t cook cookies. Or cut them, either.
- Next week’s blog could be written, too, and then we’d be done with December.
- Remember you didn’t check the mail yesterday. Go out in 13-degree weather to check the mail to find three pieces of junk and one thing to be filed for tax purposes.
- The tax folder is fat and unorganized. Pull it out and start categorizing, then put it back because it’s not time for that right now. Show some self-restraint.
- Boil water for tea. In a real kettle. Prep the mug and cut off the teabag string. Because S4 is calling and you’ve got no time to deal with strings attached to anything.
- Ignore the Muse when she cries from the hallway that the Tooth Fairy has a job opening covering Europe. But you’re boiling water, so we’re getting there.
- Google for the third time how many hours are left till deadline.
- One less hour than you had before you started this list. Or this blog.
- Find a kitty that needs cuddled.
- Clean the litter boxes.
- Congratulate yourself on all the stuff you’re getting—
- Tea pot’s whistling.
- Remember to turn the burner off.
- Pour the water. Stir the tea. Head to the office with your hot pink oversized mug with white glittery letters spelling out JOY.
- Remember there’s joy in writing.
- Fingers over keyboard, deep breath, and… Kitty #1 walks into the room.
- Kitty #2 walks out of the room. You follow it through the kitchen.
- Decide to bathe the dishes and the stove.
- So much getting done.
- Pay no attention to that ticking time clock in your head. You’ve got all kinds of time to write S4. You already know how it’ll start. How it’ll end. We’re percolating the story. That’s what we’re doing.
- Oops.
- Return to the office. Tea’s cold.
- Ignore the Muse as she drags her amethyst bedazzled suitcase into the middle of the hallway and waves her passport in your face, screaming, “I’m serious about Europe. And all those British teeth!”
- Sit down with cold tea and stare at the blank S4 as Kitty #2 jumps onto the desk and sits like regal royalty.
- Realize Kitty #2 is sitting in the exact position of the kitty cookie cutter that’s rattling around in the kitchen drawer.
- Google “Christmas Cat Cookie Designs.”
- Realize the writer’s muck is even stronger than you feared since you’re 31 steps in and considering an activity requiring an oven.
- Become consumed with the muck.
- Go to Walmart in the 15-degree-ness to buy icing and pre-rolled cookie dough for cat cookies and decorate them when you’ve never done something like this on a whim and only then ever under protest.
- Unpack the icing. Pre-heat the oven.
- Another load of laundry switched under the gaze of an angry Muse.
- The S4 is waiting. Remind yourself we don’t cook cookies. Or cut them.
- We cook the cookies. And we cut them. Rolled them out, even. Didn’t burn the kitchen down.
- Sit for two hours learning how to ice cat-shaped cookies with strange icing that moves and morphs all over the place. But that’s okay, these are practice cats.
- Get a little miffed when Kitty #3 startles you and you squeeze the icing bag so hard that pink icing goes everywhere. Lots of pink cat cookies now.
- Pick some kitty hair out of the cookies. I mean, these are practice cats. They’re not going anywhere.
- Eat a practice cat. It’s not a Milano, but it’ll do as fuel for the S4.
- One more practice cat. Feel the lifting of the muck. Or a sugar high. Probably the sugar…
- Kitties #s 1, 2, and 3 help some more, spilling sprinkles and threatening to put paw prints in the not-set icing.
- Little Miss Muse taps her purple stilettoes on the table, arms crossed, fumes billowing from her wings.
- Eat another practice cat. Energy to clean up the cat cookie mess.
- More tea. Same mug. Are we joyful yet?
- Back in the office. Wipe the crumbs from your face. Don’t Google how many hours are left on the deadline. It’s depressing and stressing and will require two more practice cats. The all-pink ones.
- Face the S4, and slightly sticky fingers positioned over the keyboard, and…
- The dryer buzzes. Your Muse flees to Europe to collect tiny British teeth, taking her bottle rockets, the remaining fuel for the S4, and the rest of the practice cats with her.
