Half a croissant, on a plate, with a sign in front of it saying '50c'
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The Procrastination Doctor

I'll write something here later.
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It was James Joyce who said the trick of writing a good novel is simply applying the seat of one's pants to the seat of one's chair. That's what I read when I googled "inspirational literary quotes" rather than adding to the fifty eight thousand words which had become something of a static tally at the bottom of my screen.

I clicked back onto the document and stared at the stuborn chapter which I couldn't seem to grab by the throat and finish. I sighed, and wondered if another cup of strong coffee would help me work into the night.

Within thirty seconds I was googling "caffeine addiction", and five minutes after that I was in the kitchen creating a new sandwich as an experiment to try to get into the psyche of my main protagonist who, it turned out, had a rather peckish outlook on life.

I had tried self help books and time-management gurus. I flirted with a life coach for a short while and tried rewarding myself with chocolate each time I finished a chapter. None of it worked. I still couldn't reach sixty thousand words without getting sidetracked and distracted.

"Maybe I'm just not destined to finish this work," I thought as I used the halfbakery as another avoidance tactic. "Maybe some things are best left undone."

There was a knock at the door, which was strange as I wasn't expecting anyone. I didn't recognise the girl waiting on the porch. She told me she was Daphne, and looked taken aback when I looked blankly at her.

"The procrastination doctor?"

I stared at her. In truth I'd forgotten about her. She was supposed to have shown up a week last Tuesday.

"Last Tuesday?" she said, her eyes widening slightly. "Really? Boy, where does the time go?"

I asked her if she had a business card I could keep hold of. She told me that she did. At least, she had a design all made up and ready for the printer. Well, an idea for a design, at least.

"I'll write my number down on a piece of paper for you in a while," she said. "No rush, eh?"

I told her about the problem with my manuscript. Explained how I simply couldn't finish putting the words onto the page. She said she could help, but before we went inside she noticed the stars. Brightest she'd ever seen, she reckoned.

She wanted paying up front, or in a bit, once we had looked through the writing. Or later. At some point though would be good. I was lucky, she said, because she'd been meaning to put the prices up for ages. It was getting cold. I wanted to get inside.

"I love nights like this" she told me. "You know, when you can see your breath in front of your face."

She put two fingers in front of her face and blew out, pretending to smoke like we did when we were kids. Told me she knew a great pub for weather like this. The windows looked like Christmas cards, she said. She planned to open her own bar, one day.

"But I need to write," I told her. "Writers write."

It was a Steven King quote I had googled just before the James Joyce one. I told her that if I went to the pub, I'd never get to sixty thousand words, and I'd probably put the manuscript into a bottom draw and never look at it again.

"Nonsense," she said. "You can edit it on a mobile phone these days. I've got an app for that."

"Really?" I asked. "So we could go to the pub and edit my work?"

She fumbled about in her pocket and found her phone. She started swishing through it and muttering to herself. Apparently she'd meant to download it last week from the app-store but hadn't quite gotten around to it. She really was truly bloody hopeless. She was wasting my time.

"We'll be back by ten" she told me, although she hadn't quite found time to pick up a timetable so she wasn't sure what time the last train was.

That was the last straw. I told her I didn't need her help. I closed the door on her, confident that I wasn't the most ineffectual human being on the planet after all.

I missed a step as I passed the kitchen, wondering whether to pop some corn to chew on while I typed, but I decided against it. Instead I went back to the study, clicked my knuckles, and started to write.

Fishrat, Oct 03 2012

[link]






       Dude, she dug you! And you blew it.   

       Take it from here...   

       “Really?” she said, her eyed widening slightly. Her slight widening was slightly sightly, I eyed. She smiled wisely. Her slight white thighs a sight for dry eyes! “There is one more thing I meant to put off…”, she sighed as she put it off. I widened tightly!
bungston, Oct 03 2012
  

       I've got this bun somewhere I keep meaning to give you.
MaxwellBuchanan, Oct 03 2012
  

       That's what she said too!
bungston, Oct 03 2012
  

       Remind me to get her number from you later...
Alterother, Oct 03 2012
  

       Hi Fishrat, I think this is great, but I'll have to get back to ya later. Missed you!
blissmiss, Oct 03 2012
  

       She was going to set up a Skype account, I think.
bungston, Oct 03 2012
  

       psst, eighteenth last letter should be an 's'... whenever you get 'round to it.   

       Thanks bung and 2fries. I've tidied the typos.
Fishrat, Oct 04 2012
  

       I'll type in a more detailed annotation when I get a round twit.
neelandan, Oct 04 2012
  

       However, her invoice will arrive promptly at 9am the following morning, by recorded-delivery mail - payment terms: 48 hours, after which interest charges will apply.
hippo, Oct 04 2012
  

       [+] finally an idea that doesn't sound like fun
pashute, Oct 04 2012
  
      
[annotate]
  


 

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