I am not, in an measurable manner, making progress against the demon procrastination. If there were a contest for best living example of avoiding the obvious, I could well be a contender. It’s not that the spirit isn’t willing, more the body isn’t caring.
After spending an energetic six weeks working on remodeling the house, my recent bout of tendonitis in my handed hand has me sidelined, with orders to avoid the hand, except for essentials, for at least a month…if not more. Rembrandt without his brushes. Shakespeare without his pen. A new homeowner without a cause. All of those are, unfortunately and hopefully temporarily, me.
While I am making use of the downtime by catching up on reading, an activity on which I’d gladly spend unlimited times in most cases, it’s frustrating to be artificially sidelined, especially with winter approaching where reading and relaxing are considered sport and house remodeling demands hibernating. Right now, in the prime of the weather, I should be painting. And carpentering. And other assorted domicile enhancements.
So I continue day by day, thinking it’s a good opportunity to restart the writing program, the blog, the list of ebook titles, the half-finished novel, etc., etc., yet not able to break away from the miasmic quagmire that keeps me fiddling with rather than finessing my waiting writing list. Maybe the nice change to cool weather we’re currently enjoying will help invigorate me. Or maybe putting these thoughts out into public space will sufficiently shame me into action. Or not.
It is what it is.