Perfecting the art of procrastination
When I’m on a book deadline and should be writing…
‘I’m on a book deadline.’ This is what I’ve been telling everyone this week. My husband, family, friends, hairdresser, they’re probably sick of hearing about it.
‘I am on a book deadline. Have I said? I must have mentioned it. A really important book deadline.’
From the way I keep going on about it, it sounds like I’ve got Penguin Random House on standby waiting to receive my manuscript. I haven’t, obviously. This deadline is a self-imposed one.
If you’ve missed my updates recently, I’ve entered the Comedy Women in Print competition and want to make sure I finish my novel just in case the organisers like my work and want me to submit the full manuscript.
So, I am on a mission. I’ve been up most mornings at 5am, writing around the day job, snatching time between sorting the horses and other family commitments. It’s not possible to put everything on hold, so I’ve been doing what I can when I can.
Everything was going well. May and into the start of June, I’ve been really productive, but this week my energy levels dipped—partly hormone related, of course, but also an accumulation of early mornings and late nights working on my novel. I’ve found myself procrastinating. In fact, I appear to have perfected the art of procrastination.
Here’s how the week unfolded.
Monday 9 June
Up at 5am and spend the first hour working on the same paragraph I was working on yesterday and the day before. I can’t seem to get past it.
‘Step away from the paragraph,’ I tell myself. ‘Leave it alone. Come back to it. Leave it. LEAVE IT!’
No matter how many times I say these things, I don’t listen. I work through that same paragraph—rereading, rewriting, editing—so many times, I lose the will to live.
What’s happening? Why can’t I write? I’ve never experienced such a block. On I go, bashing my head against this bloody paragraph, tweaking, tweaking some more, and still, it is shit.
After an hour, I hack my way through the words and into another paragraph, which flows a bit better, but not much. I make myself a cup of tea. I keep typing, aware that my arm (particularly the left arm is sore) and that in spending 12 hours a day at my desk writing, I am risking repetitive strain. I keep going.
Just after 6am and the words are coming at quite a pace. This is flow. This is it. And then, I have to stop—the horses need feeding and I have a living to earn.
‘I don’t want to stop,’ I tell Chris when he comes downstairs. ‘I don’t want to stop.’ I carry on for another 10 minutes before I drag myself away from the kitchen table and into my life.
Later that day, at 4.26pm precisely, when my eyelids are heavy and my entire body is dizzy from lack of sleep, I get a message from Substack. I have made the Substack charts. Midlife without a Map is number 95 in the top 100 in the Rising in Humour category.
If I wasn’t so exhausted, I’d be jumping up and down and celebrating. This is proof that someone other than my mum and Auntie Karen read my weekly pieces. This is a significant breakthrough.
As the afternoon goes on, my delight moves into panic. If I’m rising in humour, that means I’ll have to write something funny for this week’s piece and I am on a book deadline. I’ve not planned anything, never mind something to make people laugh.
Just as I’m thinking it’s all too much pressure, the pharmacy calls me. If I don’t collect my prescription, which has been ready and waiting for weeks, they are going to put it back on the shelf.
I’ve already collected my prescription, so I’m not sure what they’re on about.
‘What’s it for?’ I ask.
When they say HRT Oestrogel, I stop what I’m doing and race to the chemist ‘I’ll take it. I’ll take it.’
In the evening, my friend is hosting a writing workshop. I’ve been really looking forward to it, but the tiredness is quickly becoming overwhelming. I sit on the sofa, taking regular sips of Diet Coke to get a hit of caffeine. When the group is sharing book recommendations, my mind goes blank. A book? What is this concept?
‘I can’t think of anything,’ I say, staggering off the call. I go for a four-mile run to wake myself up, then faff around at home for a few hours, before crawling into bed.
Tuesday 10 June
The dodgy paragraph is well and truly behind me now, and I am picking up pace. Halfway through my morning writing session, someone pushes a leaflet through the letterbox.
Personal training. Shape your body with Tommy.
I put it to one side. Once the book is finished, I will address my deteriorating fitness. But for now, there is writing to be done.
After the day job, Chris helps me out by sorting the horses, and I do what anyone facing the most important deadline of their career would do. I sit down and get to work. Actually, no, I call Tommy the trainer, and pop round to meet him. We chat for an hour about my fitness goals.
‘I’d like to be able to lift the hairdryer to blow-dry my hair without my arm hurting,’ I say.
He nods, like that’s doable.
‘And I’d like to look as amazing as the fit people on Instagram.’
His eyes widen. ‘We could start with a beginner’s programme,’ he says.
‘Sounds good,’ I say. ‘I’m on a deadline, but I’ll be free to train in a few weeks.’
Now that I am shaping my body with Tommy, I go home, have a Diet Coke and a packet of crisps and resume typing. After that, I run but have to abort two and a half miles in because Diet Coke and crisps is not the best pre-run fuelling strategy, and my stomach almost explodes.
Later that night, I watch an episode of The Thick of It with Chris, who is wearing his first ever pair of glasses.
‘They suit you,’ I say. ‘It’s like having a whole new husband.’
‘It’s like having a whole new wife,’ he says.
Wednesday 11 June
I am no longer rising in humour, which is disappointing but also a bit of a relief because I am on a book deadline and cannot cope with extra pressure. I don’t have to force funny. I can just be my miserable self.
The tiredness reaches another level. I try to revive myself with a Pilates class before work and a long walk with Chris after work. I want to think about my novel so it’s not wasted time, but I can’t think of anything other than our holiday, which is coming up soon but not soon enough.
‘I don’t know any Portuguese,’ I say. ‘Not one word, and I like to at least try.’
‘Obrigado,’ Chris says.
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘As long as we know please and thank you, we should get by.’
‘I don’t want to just get by. I want to immerse myself in the culture.’
Add learn Portuguese to my growing list of things to do. Also realise Portugal is the same time as the UK.
‘I could still do my day job from Portugal. We should move. How nice would that be?’
‘Aren’t you on a book deadline?’ Chris says.
Being on a book deadline in the Algarve would be much better than being on a book deadline in Barnsley.
Thursday 12 June
Writing. Sorting animals. Working. Then head to meet my niece at Popeyes for our weekly catch up. Our chat is always interesting. Tonight’s topics of conversation…
‘Who was the third member of Destiny’s Child after Beyonce and Kelly Rowland?’
‘Who is the richest child in the world?’
‘Who was Evel Knievel?’
Afterwards, go on a mission to buy Father’s Day presents for my dad and father-in-law. Family drama last week when Mum got her days muddled and thought Father’s Day was last Sunday.
‘You do know it’s Father’s Day,’ she said, looking at me like I was a disappointing daughter.
For a few seconds, I went into a panic. Then checked my dates and realised all was well.
Friday 13 June
Wake at 5am again. It’s Groundhog Day. I write. I stagger out for a 5k run in beautiful sunshine. I work. I do a sweaty spin class. I shower. I get into bed and think I will never get out again.
Saturday 14 June
There is just one word in my diary. Stereophonics. I take a day off my life and head to Huddersfield to see my favourite band. The book deadline is there at the back of my mind, but I try not to worry about it. Having fun is the priority.
About me: I’m Liz Champion, a writer from Yorkshire, trying to make an important book deadline but getting distracted a LOT.
"Mr Writer, why don't you tell it like it is?
Why don't you tell it like it really is?"
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