I’ll title this later – An open letter to Procrastinators

I have 11 untitled documents currently open on my desktop. Notes from stories, a manuscript for a novel, two poems, a resume-in-progress, my goals for 2018, and lots of ranting and guilt-ridden bytes.

Incompletion, I have it.

I bathe in it and I stink of it.

I hate fucking admitting it but here it is – I have incomplete works that I have, for one reason or another, have failed to complete.

Guess what? Most of us do.

You talk to a writer that feels like they’re doing enough, lately? Or Have read enough? I’m sure they’re out there, and you may be one of them.

If you are, I salute you.

But I want to address those who, like me, feel the gnaw at your feet when life gets in the way completing your project.

We all know them, what we tell ourselves …our reasons.

Mine are:

“I’ll clean my Inbox first, then I’ll write.”
“I’ve already done my Morning Pages, that’s enough.”
“I really need __x__ to start, but when I get it, I’ll be ready.” (replace ‘x’ with time, coffee, A trendy Spotify playlist, A Mercury Retrograde, a fully charged laptop, a full stomach, my Batman Steampunk coffee tumbler, more time, a full moon, the muse, etc.)

Whatever your reasons are, they become incredibly strong when we keep them in our head and say them once, twice, thrice a day, over a year, over a decade.

Enough to make it true.

If you can relate with me, then I want you to take a moment and take a step back and FUCK YOUR OWN FACE! (No. Don’t do that. I HAD to add a Tropic Thunder reference. teehee.)

I want you to write them down and read them out loud.

Then I want you breathe and be honest with yourself – are these really reasons to not complete my project?

If they REALLY are, is there a way to satisfy the reason and still be able to make SOME progress?

Because at the end of the day, no matter how many blog posts from schmucks like me you read, or motivational books you read and Instagram posts you stock up on,

No one is going to do the work for you.

And no one is going to tell you you’re at fault.

Except your own beating heart.

And if it’s still beating for something more, then why not do something about it?

 

 

Write on, fuckers.

Disclaimer: I’m not claiming to know the answer. I’m right there with you, trying to figure this all out, for the umpteenth time, because I know that, despite the never-ending struggle to create, there’s nothing else I rather do. 

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