Putting it Off 

By Gaie Sebold
 

Stare at screen.  Spent entire day in garden yesterday, ignoring all writerly duties, so now Must Work.   
 

Part of gardening consisted of revamping bit can see from desk so will have something nice to look at while working. Unfortunately induces desire to go out and faff around more, in order to create perfect, harmonious, creativity-enhancing landscape. 
 

Spot weed, go out and pull up same. Discover huge vile slug hiding under weed and run back to house for salt. Salt slug (not without moment of deep karmic shame, no doubt will be own fate in next world at hands of stuck writer, but too late now). Fetch slug pellets, move pots around, etc.   
 

Have faffed away half an hour. This mere procrastination. Must Work, but first spend 20 minutes looking for book on How to Beat Procrastination. 
 

Realize deep pointlessness of above exercise and add Procrastination to pile of self-help books on sofa. Had moment of horror recently listening to friends discussing books, and realized seem to have read almost nothing except self-help for past two months. Dared not confess and muttered instead about working on novel. 
 

When in fact am noticeably failing to do same.   
 

Well, not entirely. Managed paragraph or so on train yesterday. Only seem to be able to work in short bursts right now; available space of more than an hour fills brain with unreasoning panic and white noise. 

 

Wonder if this the dreaded Second Novel Syndrome. Thought this only happened after first novel already published and acclaimed, but as own first novel (apart from Dreadful Fantasy Tome still lurking under bed) not yet published, never mind acclaimed, must be something else.   
 

Wonder if should try to write Dan Brown-style thriller instead but suspect agent would hate same, and anyway, couldn’t. Lack requisite testosterone and capacity to end every single chapter on cliffhanger.  
 

Also… no, must not be rude about other writers. Bad karma. Besides everyone already been v. rude about poor Mr. B. Wonder if he still cares. 
 

Does having made vast sums from writing remove capacity to wince when people rude about work? Somehow doubt it-- human ego a strange and fragile thing. Own, despite nice things said by publishers, still capable of cringe when lack of marketability pointed out.  Too reminiscent of parental voice saying, "Very nice, dear, but no-one makes a living writing."  
 

Was not for many years that realized weirdness of this statement when made in house full of books, at least some of whose authors, presumably, were doing exactly that. 
 

Also distracted by next novel hovering in wings, occasionally tugging at skirts like small child, begging for attention. Next novel all cute and curly-headed, whereas current one more like repulsive teenager, lying in bed all day in smelly room refusing to go out and earn living.  Grass Always Greener syndrome-- anything one not supposed to be working on more attractive than whatever should be doing. Also plagued by short story ideas flirting with consciousness, inviting quick and dirty satisfaction instead of long slog. 
 

Try to remember who said thing about short story being an affair and novel being a marriage. Must not go on Internet and look it up. Must Work. Cannot afford divorce from novel at this point.   
 

Realize have thought of novel as both teenager and marital partner within two mental paragraphs. Wonder if this literary perversity or just sign that all ability to use consistent metaphors has entirely evaporated. 
 

Realize Sunday morning also evaporating with horrifying rapidity. Must Work. 
 

Decide novel is definitely sulky adolescent, and stomp parentally up metaphorical stairs to haul novel out of bed with promises of DVDs, pizza, loan of credit card, etc., in return for getting up and doing something. 
 

Realize novel is in fact far too similar to self. 
 

Novel is now at least three people, none of them appealing. Watch last remaining hope of coherent metaphor trickle away, and decide don't care who novel represents, am going to drag its lazy backside out of bed anyway.   
 

Must just check on slugs one more time first…