Proscrazytination

Wife and kids are downstairs digging out Christmas crap... whistling cheerfully to each other, listening to Christmas music (I hear Greensleeves right now)... I informed them that I was going upstairs to write for a while. I've been up here for forty-five minutes, during which I have done the following:

- stared at the manuscript notes scattered across my desk
- opened up online poker and lost twenty thousand dollars and then won back twice that much
- read from half a dozen other writer's blogs... a new hobby of mine now... following the pathetic ramblings of other writers... all the while searching out ramblings more pathetic than mine
- finished the last few sips of a Mountain Dew I had no business drinking
- read every word of my own last few blog posts... why do I read my shit over and over again... It's like some kind of literary masturbation... I just don't know
- stared at the manuscript notes on my desk

The dog came running into my office a few minutes ago with a gigantic bow tied around her neck. She looked quite verklempt... God I love that word.

Why do I put myself through this? Why can't I just crack open the file, follow the notes, make the changes, move on... why can't I just do it? I know I will, eventually... I'll get it done before it's due... I always do. But why must I torture myself? Is it some kind of psychological yoyo string that must be wrapped around and around until I'm ready to be flung into the air? What is it? I know it has to be done... I know I must do it. I know I must get it done soon. I know this procrastination is unhealthy, that it only serves to make my heartbeat a little faster and increase my blood pressure... I know that it would be easier, physically and psychologically, to just crack open the file and do the fucking work. But I won't. I won't until I'm up against the wall, the gun to my head. And then I'll do it, and I'll do a good job... but why this torture? Why this tightening rock in the middle of my chest?

Here are some theories:

- I'm afraid to open the manuscript for fear that I will realize how fucked up a particular area of revision is
- I just don't want to do the fucking work
- It's all been going well, and I don't want to deal with something that isn't golden and sparkly
- I'm a pussy.
- It just doesn't feel like the time is right yet, I'm waiting for the right moment to strike, when the planets are aligned and my aura is a light shade of purple (translation - I'm a pussy and I'm full of shit...)
- I'm just really fucking tired and I don't want to do shit.

Once again.... once again.... once again.... bottom line... I know, I know, I know, I know... that this is part of the process, my process, the process, I know that this is what I have to do, what I must go through, the battle I have to fight with myself to get the thing done and out the door. I've learned to accept this (at least I think if I keep telling myself that, I'll feel better).

I've also learned that I'm a big pussy.

But I'd love to be an independently wealthy, fairly well-known pussy, and in order to reach that status, I guess I need to get this fucking manuscript out the door.

Honestly, I don't have to be an independently wealthy, fairly well-known pussy insasmuch as I'd like to just be a pussy who's able to pay the bills.