The late, great Douglas Adams said he loved the whooshing sound deadlines make as they fly by.
I like the comforting terror of them looming towards me, growing until they blot out the sun, forcing me to do the work, do it now!!
So, it was a tad disconcerting to have two of my mid-April deadlines pushed back – one to mid-May and the other to the end of May. My reaction may be of limited interest amid all the other fascinating social hodgepodge and governmental jiggery-pokery that’s been going on for the last few weeks (which have felt oddly like a slow-burning eternity).
Nevertheless, I offer up my tale of two varieties of procrastination as solace to those also afflicted by the blight of diminishing motivation.
The first mid-month deadline was a critique of a novel for my writing crit group. It now goes hand-in-hand with my needing to complete a final edit of my own novel before I upload it for perusal by the group for June critting, but that deadline was always mid-May so let’s put it aside. I was racing into the last pre-crit week, devouring the set novel and enjoying it immensely. Then our deadline was pushed back for a month and I … stalled.
Stopped.
I haven’t opened the file in three weeks.
It’s ridiculous. I was enjoying it and suddenly… nothing. Part of my reason for writing this post is to try and overtly reboot my brain by reminding it that the new deadline is only two weeks away, hoping that the looming fear of diminishing time to finish the job will get me cracking again.
It’s not working… yet.
The other deadline, pushed back to the end of May, is to complete a short story for submission to the Heroines Anthology* (which this year also includes the Heroines Women’s Writing Prize). I had stories published in the first and the second anthologies, and I’m really excited to try and make it three for three.
All was going well and then the deadline was pushed back and suddenly… boom!
My story exploded, gaining more and more twists and turns, more layers of fairy tale references. It went wandering off across the Fells, chatting to Long Meg and King Eveling and hooking up with Jane Eyre and her Gytrash.
Now it’s become two separate short stories and I’ve had to take to them both with a machete because they’re like the blasted alien Red Weed, spreading across the countryside in a seemingly unstoppable tide.
What’s going on? On one hand I drop the bucket. On the other I go into manic bucket overdrive.
…and speaking of Fantasia’s sorcerer’s apprentice – which we totally were – and therefore our dire friend on Bald Mountain, did you realise that, as it is the last day of 2020’s endless April it is Walpurgisnacht? This is a traditional night for witches’ Sabbats on the tops of mountains everywhere, but not this year due to social distancing restrictions. It’s tough all round…
Er, what? You didn’t realise?
Of course you didn’t – you’ve lost track of time.
Days blur and bleed into each other. Weekdays and weekends are indistinguishable. You stay up late because there’s no reason to wake up early. You check your phone, blink, and the morning is gone.
Sorry, Einstein, time has become irrelevant to the observer.
We were warned, at the start of this social isolation malarkey to have a routine. I did. I do. I have lists of things that I need to accomplish by certain times. You’re probably thinking ‘so stick to the plan and get things finished early, doofus’. That’s rational. It just doesn’t work for me. My system is dependent on the motivation of deadlines. Once I am free of the shadow of its looming I’m all zen like a stripey-tailed lemur, basking in the sun.
I think I need to do more than reboot my brain. I need to reboot my year. So tonight I’ll draw up some fresh lists and set some fresh goals and I can treat the 1st of May as a new start – 2020b, perhaps? It can’t be worse than version a**.
* if you are a writer and a woman then follow the link to the Heroines Women’s Writing Prize and Anthology. Read the guidelines. You have until May 31 to submit your <3000 word story.
** no, Universe, that is not a bloody gauntlet. Cut it out. It’s not funny.