Today marks the start of the writing of a new book. And what better way to celebrate it, than by procrastinating!
As writers go, I try hard to keep myself towards the more disciplined end of the scale. I lock myself in my shepherd’s hut with a hot drink and then emerge, blinking and mole-like about two hours later for another brew before the cycle repeats itself.
The problem is that I write about the outdoors and nature and there is a window in the shepherd’s hut. What peculiar conspiracy is it that I should sit down to write on a morning like this one? There is no getting away from a starry, frosty morning that grows into one with pink clouds and sun over sheep that have left dark thawed patches in the white fields.
I feel like a sixteen-year-old, trying to do some homework, at a party, surrounded by beautiful girls. They are dancing too.
I must begin the book. I must pull myself away from the outdoors to write about it. I know…
I’ll blog about it. The blog, the procrastinator’s Moriarty. No, there must be a better way. Yes…
I’ll forage for a solution. I’m going to head out into the hills to find a winter herb that will cure procrastination. A foolproof plan.
No. I will head to the hut now and if things go well then I may be some time. If things go very well I may even be found there, frozen like poor Captain Oates, icy fingers clamped around a completed chapter.