I’m sure most creative folks procrastinate and worry about getting back to a piece of work, but this seems to be particularly true when it comes to writers. Today I’m procrastinating. My “real” work is an almost-finished story that I can’t quite get back into, at least not yet. In the meantime I’ll read, cook, run errands, shower, clean, and watch an episode of a t.v. show slightly less boring than doing absolutely nothing. I’ll contemplate reading all of the books on my shelf, I’ll think about the universe and meditation, wondering if perhaps I should just sit in silence for a while but not doing it because that’s just as frightening as writing–and then I’ll wander around the house for a while like a aimless, lonesome toddler.
Unfortunately, the blank page refuses to care. It will sit there like the buddha, with a smug, cryptic little smile that suggests it knows more than me and always will. I’ll try to work myself into a lather by imagining publication in the New Yorker, millions of readers, adulation, and sentences as rich and fecund as the elixir produced by Melville’s loins.
But all I need is a start. From here–after writing the few words I’ve just written–I’m ready to re-enter the story because I know it’s more of the same. You put down what you can, and works towards an end.