From my earliest memories I loved playing “make believe.” By six years old, my friends and I would spend hours in the basement with a sheet draped over the pipe in the ceiling, decked out in our parents’ old clothes making up involved skits complete with songs and choreography unbound by realism. We were unicorns, animals, fairies, pirates, scientists, master builders, royalty and every age from birth to Methuselah. The gift of belief beating within our small hearts helped us try on the many people we might be, work out our every question and our bravery and invention shone unfiltered and bright.
If procrastination were an art I’d be Picasso. I have a myriad of forms and techniques to delay and fail at achieving my goals.
Each year it seems like I do the same damn thing. I make a New Year’s resolution: Run a marathon, learn a second language, write a novel. And by using my glorious skill of procrastination, before February rolls around, I’ve got my feet on the coffee table, a bowl of potato chips in my lap.
But putting off writing is where I truly shine. When it comes to writing, I do the worst kind of procrastination. I productively procrastinate.