I never thought procrastination would be so simple, but I found a way.
I found a way.
I set out working on chapter seven of my story and somehow found myself plunging into the ether of pop culture sludge.
For literally no reason at all, I began looking into the Drake and Josh controversy.
In case you don’t know what I’m talking about, Drake Bell found out Josh Peck was getting married via social media instead of through the man himself. Outraged that he wasn’t contacted about it, Drake immediately lapsed into insanity and began berating Josh through Twitter instead of….you know…actually talking to the guy.
Naturally, the internet led the charge against Josh, decrying him for committing such a treacherous act against his on-screen brother and real life bff. How dare he not invite his “brotha” to such a momentous occasion? Didn’t he realize we’re all watching him?
Memes were created as effigies against the traitor. His Facebook and Twitter feed were bombarded with hateful comments.
Good news: it appears they have since made up as evidenced by a recently posted vlog by Josh Peck.
Bad news: I apparently care about this sh*t.
I loved Drake and Josh as a kid, but they are real people with real lives that are none of my business. Why did I take it upon myself to do research on this subject? Why do I care so much about people I will never meet and (in spite of giving me a few hours worth of laughs) really didn’t contribute that much to my life?
It’s amazing the mental gymnastics I will do just to avoid a rough writing session. That’s really what it comes down to: Not wanting to write a difficult chapter
And my mind will do anything–question anything—if it gets me off the hook.
I don’t even want to talk about all the WatchMojo videos I’ve watched in an attempt to drain my evening of writing time.
Oh crap, I just spent three hours watching clips from Carrie and analyzing how Sissy Spacek’s portrayal of the main character was much better than the one from the 2013 movie.
Oh well. Guess I don’t have time to write now.
Then I lie awake it bed, feeling hopelessly guilty that I thwarted what few hours I have on this earth watching crappy five minutes videos, caught in my own web of self-defeatism, when I could be contributing to the ever-growing nest of culture that is the arts and humanities.
It doesn’t matter how many cups of coffee I throw back or how much atmospheric music I play, even Enya can’t save me from my bad habits so pervasive in my mind that they have decided to colonize as many lobes as possible.
All I can hope for is that, eventually, I will strike the right cord. The chapter I am currently working on I have rewritten about sixteen times. No hyperbole.
However, I’ve decided (for the fourth week in a row) that this will be my weekend. This will be the week that I finish that damn chapter. This time I won’t be distracted by WatchMojo or watch the Stephen King It trailer for the twentieth time even though I despise remakes and, after closer examination, have almost no desire to see it.
I suppose there is nothing for it.
All I can do is look my story dead in the eye and say…
Eh…maybe next week.