Procrastination, gentle reader, makes me productive in every way except the ways in which I ought to be.
I’m not joking. I have three books that I need to read by tomorrow, an essay with a deadline that is rapidly approaching, a stack of audio that I should edit, I need to clean out my bedroom, and a shortlist of job applications I need to submit… but the weather is inviting, and there’s a nice cafe down the road, and I have three new books that I’d like to pour over, and there are some movies I’d like to watch at the cinema. I want to write short stories and then delete them so that nobody can see how bad they are. I bought some letter paper a few weeks ago, but it’s too large for writing letters, so I might draw on those instead. And I love reading essays. I want to be a better essayist, but I keep succumbing to the self-doubt that I’m dull and turgid. Maybe I’m the only person left who still gets excited by essays. I want to print out old literary essays on cheap pamphlet paper and slip them into friends’ letter boxes, leave them on colleagues’ desks, tuck them into books at the library for complete strangers to discover.
Of course, I’m not actually going to do this because I haven’t completely lost my biscuits yet.