How Procrastination is My Friend
It’s an Ally for Self-doubt and Imposter Syndrome
I’m currently writing my third book of poetry and I’ve fallen into that icky space of self-doubt. I’m getting cold feet to the point of feeling queasy, followed by a heavy case of imposter syndrome.
The weight is very real. The voices are loud.
“You are not a real writer. Everything you’ve written sounds the same. Too many sentences begin with ‘there’ and you’ve got too many ‘that’s’, and ‘very’ and your nouns feel like verbs, and the verbs are growling. Plus, you’ve overused the words: soul, dream, love, tears. It sounds like you are either dying or you’re having an orgasm watching a sunset.”
[insert real tears]
At this point I mindlessly start to take the felt pads off the bottom of the kitchen chairs and replace them with fresh ones.
Years ago, I assumed there was something gravely wrong with me when I decided to re-caulk my shower, knowing I had a writing deadline.
But now I realize procrastinating is my thing while I hold 22 feelings simultaneously and clean, sort, and alphabetize the spices.
Procrastination is my friend. She used to be this shadowy figure. However, with time, I’ve learned to accept and love her. She is part of my writing process.
Procrastinating is self-soothing as I wander around my home painting the small nicks on all the doorframes.
If I could find my Fitbit, it would be excited with my pacing.
The other day, I took apart my vacuum cleaner (not thinking that one fully through), but it was too late and although I didn’t get the clogged hose cleaned, I did marvel at the inner workings of the brush thingy and the wild star shaped screws holding everything together. Which had me wondering, is this screw metric or US standard? No matter how long I Googled, I could not find the answer.
Nevertheless, my vacuum is now at the local Sew and Vac repair store. It needs more love.
One thing I know for sure, by the end of this current project, my home will be extra sparkly.
Procrastination not only demonstrates itself with multiple DIY YouTube videos but with self-help and WebMD.
With the latter, I’m convinced either my ilium or my ischium is having difficulties that are preventing me from focusing. Somehow that’s connected to my lower lumbar pain, neck and shoulder.
If Picasso was still alive, he might have enjoyed painting me since I’m already all over the place.
Did you know there’s a filter above a free-standing stove? It can be removed and soaked in vinegar. I saved $8.95.
This is who I am and how I sort through the vast feelings of what I am doing as a creative person who also has a sharp inner critic that loves, loves, loves to bully the tender sides of me.
Thankfully procrastination skips in all silly-willy-nilly,
“Hey! You! Let’s play move the furniture around!
Or let’s play the piano and sing!”
Nevertheless, the clock keeps ticking until that 11th hour where focus discovers me.
The coffee pot is happy. Soy creamer is at the ready. Frozen pizza reheated for the third time. Zap a mug to take the chill off. Fingers poised and thoughts zero in with the feel of words — do they flow? Is there a staccato? What’s the pulse of the sentence? What’s holding me back? Is that poem too raw?
While procrastination is napping, I can hear her saying, “Relax. Let the music of your words walk with your intuition.”
She knows you well. She knows you whole. She’s been here for decades, sorting the stacks of papers and giving you distractions so your imagination can translate it into prose.