Oh dear, I'm late for a very important date...
Although it's my turn to blog this week, I've had a busy time, what with a dear friend's significant birthday, the decorator being here, Andy Murray winning his amazing US Open final (and yes, I did stay up to watch it)... So I'm late. And I'm sorry. And I can't make up my mind if it's because I genuinely forgot, or because I've been procrastinating. For very good reasons, of course...
Procrastination is the enemy of writers. We all do it – well, everyone I know does it. anyway. Apparently, we all procrastinate sometimes, but 20 per cent of us can be described as chronic procrastinators, putting off difficult tasks by deliberately seeking out distractions. It's either because we 'perform better under pressure' or because we simply lack control.
Today I have:
* taken a friend to my aqua fit class and had coffee afterwards
* had another coffee over the papers at home, to keep my husband company
* helped the decorator get some of our bigger pictures up
* had a light lunch with a friend who arrived
* emailed friends about arrangements for an October away weekend
* realised I was overdue on my blog and finally sat down to it.
What I really should be doing, of course, is WRITING!!
Since starting this blog, I have looked up some quotations about procrastinating. They're so dispiriting!
'You may delay, but time will not.' (Benjamin Franklin)
'The time to begin most things is ten years ago.' (Mignon McLaughlin)
'Procrastination is the grave in which opportunity is buried.' (unknown)
See what I mean? And the ones meant to goad you into action are even worse:
'Don't wait. The time will never be just right.' (Napoleon Hill)
'Begin while others are procrastinating. Work while others are wishing. (William Arthur Ward).
'Do the hard jobs first. The easy jobs will take care of themselves.' (Dale Carnegie)
Okay, so I'll just write my novel first, will I? No clean clothes or meals for a year...
Stop it woman. You're procrastinating again.
Anyone out there who doesn't suffer, even a teensy weensy little bit? Dare you confess?