Ugh, Procrastinating

Well. My novel is now at 75,000 words.

That’s more words than I’ve ever written for a story (and I have two half-finished novel drafts skulking around the corners of my laptop, so this isn’t my first time). It’s a big number. A sort of you-have-to-finish-me-now number. A too-big-to-abandon number.

And I only started writing this book in January, so it seems like I’m finally going to complete the new year’s resolution I’ve been writing down for the last several years. This year — preferably, this month — I will finish the first draft of a book. It’s pretty surreal. And kinda scary. Mostly, it’s exciting.

But honestly, I’m not here to talk about my success. Oh, don’t worry, I’ll do that once the novel is actually done. There will probably be caps-lock involved. Consider yourselves warned, because I intend to be obnoxiously happy about it.

Today, though, I want to get something off my chest. Maybe if I admit it to you, I’ll feel better…

I’ve been procrastinating a lot. Oh, I’ve been writing every day, don’t worry. But it’s been such a slog.

You see, as I’ve seen the end of my novel drawing nearer, as I’ve hit each plot point on the list, the desire to drag my feet has grown proportionally larger. Because the closer I get to finishing the novel, the closer I get to facing the novel. I’ll finally get to see, in granular detail, how the story I wrote doesn’t match the story in my head.

And then there will be rereading, and editing, and new drafts — all of which is exciting, because the book will get better. But only if the first draft is actually fixable; if there’s something in it that’s worth polishing and refining.

What keeps me up at night is that it won’t be fixable. Maybe there’s a giant plot hole that I just haven’t noticed yet. Maybe the characters don’t feel like real people. Maybe there’s not enough momentum in the story. Maybe it’s just not compelling.

But! There is an answer! If I simply don’t write, then the novel won’t be done, and then I’ll never need to face its flaws! Muahahahahahaaaa, what a foolproof plan!

…Sadly, I’m all too aware of this plan’s flaws, such as the big glaring one where I never achieve my dream of writing a book. Yet the siren call of hiding from this book (preferably under a rock) still lingers, and so does my determination to finally get the book written, so I’ve reached a truce of sorts.

The truce involves procrastinating every night until I’m bored stiff and filled with self-loathing and need to go to bed, and then I write. Clearly, this truce isn’t actually sustainable. But for now, my word count is continuing to climb despite all the little shrieking voices my head that would rather it didn’t, so it’s workable. Not advisable, or enjoyable, or any of those nice things. But it’s working.

I’m hoping that by writing every day this month, I’ll just get over it. Maybe, once the little shrieking voices realize that they’re being consistently ignored, they’ll shut up. After all, they’re not keeping me from writing. They’re just making me procrastinate a lot first.

Can I tell you a secret? After a week or two, procrastinating becomes so. Boring. Instagram feels repetitive. YouTube feels pointless. Browsing the internet, whether window-shopping for clothes or researching something random (my current research pick is the cultural phenomenon of “busyness,” ironically), really just isn’t fulfilling when you do it day in and day out.

I feel like a kid who’s tired of summer and wants school to start again, so that they can see their friends and have something to do during the day. I’m finally getting burnt out on procrastinating.

Hopefully, this means that I’ll start writing at normal times again, rather than the dead of night. Give me another week to kick and scream (internally) about writing, and then I think I’ll get there.

Good lord, I hope I get there. Because this just isn’t fun.

Sigh. Onward.