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Author Topic: Procrastination is my worst fear.  (Read 2297 times)
Radiohead Addict (please, do not encourage this)
Posts: 470

Red Blue Green

« on: November 19, 2008, 04:02:21 PM »

OK, I have narrowed down my ideas to several exciting options, which are:

Dreamweaver- aiming for about 30 pages

Just- Already existing short logic-paradox-1984 combo. Yeah. Probably, like so much in SF, been done before, but there you go. First draft runs to five pages in handwriting, thinking of expanding to 20.

The Interminable Saga, Part Three- Not a reference to stories already written, unfortunatley, but instead a rough idea about a reluctant chivalrous knight who goes through a series of ridiculous and contradictory adventures, forever in the search of his arch-enemy, The Author.

All of these are hackneyed, unoriginal and rough. But I'm going to give it a try, because otherwise I will never know how it ends.

I cannot write unless I have hot chocolate by my side, and only when the day has a T in its name. Only then can I settle down to write, but before I begin that I must check email. Then I need to check on some forums I'm subscribed to. Then I must replace my chair, for it squeaks. Then I am kinda hungry, so I buy lunch and eat it in the restuarant. I return home and sit down at the keyboard, waiting for notepad to load. Then I stare at the screen for three minutes and decide some music needs to be on. I create a new playlist on my iPod for when I am writing, and decide I must name it, which requires opening iTunes. While on iTunes I purchase a new single/album/ep/music video/podcast and decide I should listen to it straight away. By this point I am hungry, so I have my dinner. Then I decide to get my mind into gear, I should read a book. In the book is a word I don't know, so I look for the dictionary, but cannot find it. I drive down to the library and get a dictionary, but it does not contain my word. Then I question why I did not simply search on the internet. After I am done kicking myself, I compose a humourous email to a friend. By this time it is late, and I decide that I shall have to write during the night. But first I must compose pointless and overly-long posts that no-one will ever read for message boards. Finally I sit down at my desk, my eyes glazed, as I slowly realise that I haven't written anything in months, haven't done anything in months, haven't thought or felt anything in months. It slowly dawns on me I am on autopilot, sucked dry. And I realise that I'm not really here at all.
« Last Edit: November 20, 2008, 11:35:42 AM by Raving_Lunatic » Logged
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