I should be writing. I’m a halfway through the first draft of my story for an amazing anthology I get to be a part of. Only 2,500 words away from the finish line. That’s not a lot. I could be done in half a day if I put my mind to it. Instead, I’m watching the fog burn off the river as it unhides the bank of trees. Yes, unhides. Sounded better than reveals, to me.
The thing about procrastination is there’s a time and a place for it. Ya know? It always gets a bad rap, walking around with a nasty reputation like a loose girl in the back of a fast car, who, truth be told, there is also a time and place for.
Today’s procrastination brought me quiet reflection, regeneration, and the beginnings of a new poem. I’ve pushed my poetry to the back burner for far too long. Procrastination, the little tramp, allowed me to bring it out and go for a playful romp.
Procrastination didn’t shake its finger at me, or a judgmental head—like expectation does. He just quietly encouraged me to enjoy the moment, to re-acquaint myself with an old friend. Sometimes procrastination smells the flowers before I think to. I think I’ll write him a thank you note!
I should be writing. What should you be doing?