Chronicles of a Procrastinating Novelist Volume 19: Writing Day Types - The Bait and Switch
It all started so well.
When writing time came, I ignored the mental rolodex of ten thousand other things I could do instead (laundry, emails, text my parents, go shopping, catch up on Doctor Who, laundry). I brewed up a pot of coffee, opened my laptop, and exercised mighty restraint to avoid the internet. I picked my current writing project and commenced composing the chronologically necessary scene my outline listed as next instead of the exciting one six items down the list. And best of all, I wrote fluidly, a burbling stream of well chosen verbs and graceful transitions, no pausing to brood at the cursor or play with my slinky while combing my mental thesaurus. I took no snack breaks and ignored my coffee so thoroughly it achieved a consistency akin to cold snot. I hit my word count in a blistering four hours flat then leaned back in my chair with a comfy grin plastered all over my face.
Mission now accomplished, I opened up Chrome and vanished down a Youtube hole, confident and contented.
It's the next morning. I reopen the document and re-read yesterday's smorgasbord. And it comes. The sinking feeling. Is that how Lynette would react? I mean, really? And now that I look at it, I'm not sure that song was written in the nineteenth century. Google it. Crap. 1914. Half the emotional punch of the scene leans on those lyrics! The pacing kinda sucks too. This...this is...shit, isn't it?
Come on!!!! It was all going so well! But I know. I know, deep in my neurotic, stubborn writer bones. I could suck it up and do it now, or I could procrastinate and do it later when I've allowed a crappy tangent to steer the book off course for months and therefore have to dump ten thousand words instead of four. I sulk. I tap page up and read the handful of scenes preceding yesterday's, and the sinking feeling settles like a vulture on a power line. I pull up the outline and brainstorm about four or five alternative scenes that would all fulfill the book's current narrative requirements better than the compost heap I've deposited at the current end of the document. I pout and refill my third cup of coffee. I add creamer this time because I'm pouting and have decided peppermint mocha is emotionally consoling.
Well, they call them shitty first drafts for a reason.
Click, highlight, drag, tap delete.
Sigh.
I pick a new scene to let the disappointment breathe and start working at a steadier pace. Tomorrow, I'll start all over again.
Thank you for reading,
B
