I decided to impose upon myself a few deadlines, this blog being one of them. I wanted to see if I could write something everyday for 30 days. Today I'm going to cheat a little. I wrote something so now I'm done. Oh...alright, never mind.
All of us have deadlines. Just the other day, I needed to pay a certain bill by a certain date, so I wrote a check (people still use these things?) put it in an envelope, licked it, put a stamp on it, and mailed it. Pretty simple. I still hate it. I'm somewhat of a procrastinator and If I can let it go, I will. For some reason, when somebody imposes a deadline on me, I take it as a personal assault on my time. A demand for attention I'm unwilling to give. A violent thrust of a wickedly sharp knife slicing into the guts of my existence.
Ok...it's not really that bad. I just put stuff off sometimes and then forget about it until I either have to rush around to finish the task or realize no amount of hurrying will complete it on time and I must be satisfied with it being late. There are a few exceptions to this basic flaw of mine, but for the most part, putting stuff off has become an art form for me. Let me give you an example:
Never mind...I'll think of one tomorrow.
Most writers deal with deadlines all the time. Whether you write for a newspaper, magazine, or blog, you are usually required to have a completed, polished, article ready by a certain time and date or risk having your work passed over or at the worst, losing your job. Popular fiction writers are usually no different. They must adhere to deadlines dealt them by their publishers and are usually paid in advance for work expected within a certain timeline. Thus, I'm practicing for when I'm cool and popular (if ever). If some future publisher wants me to hand in to them 500,000 words of polished material by Christmas Eve, dammit I want to be ready.
Or at least close. Maybe by Christmas day. Wait....that's a holiday so...the day after Christmas. Whatever.