This past Saturday, I experienced one of my most severe bouts of procrastination since I started writing seriously (every day) about six years ago.

I share this with you not because I’m proud of my efforts at avoidance; rather, I’m hoping that in relating my story, the rest of you shirkers will be inspired to glue your asses to a chair and get your writing done. So, without further ado, here is one man’s minute-by-minute account of stuff he does when he should be writing. (Please note: In order to prevent you from getting distracted, I purposely didn't add pictures to this entry.)
 

4:05am
A new day. Wondering why the hell I’m getting up this early. What am I, a baker? No, it’s those Yankee genes of mine, telling me to "get up and do something useful." Want to tell the Yankee in me to piss off, but instead I remind myself of an ESPN profile on Mike Tyson I saw once. When asked why he rose at 3:00am during training to go running, he replied (I always thought this was about the most insightful thing he ever said), "I like knowing I’m the first one out there, that I’m hungrier than anybody else. I figure, you want to beat me, you gotta get up pretty fucking early." Thus fortified, I find my robe, use the bathroom.

4:10am
I go into the living room and click on the TV. After a quick roll through the channels, I settle upon C-SPAN, which is showing a town hall meeting with Gen. Wesley Clark (Ret.). I like him. Seems like a straight shooter. Doubt he’ll get the nomination though. Not "political" enough. To get the average voter’s attention, you really have to be skilled in doublespeak.

4:17am
Sweetie just showed up. Amazing creatures, cats. I didn’t hear her at all—not even her little paws slapping on the bare wood floor.

"I know, I know," I tell the cat. Like she cares. She blinks coyly, walks past me with just the tip of her tail brushing my leg. These patently obvious tactics of seduction smack of the cheap ploys used by strippers. The cat wants me to think she’s being nice simply because she loves me, but I know what she’s thinking: Just give me my FOOD, dammit!

Walk into office and fire up the old iMac. I say old, but I got it in 1998. I guess to computerheads that’s old. Why should I care what they think? I don’t. Took me three attempts to get a working iMac, and this one finally came through for me with—knock on wood—no problems. I’m sticking with it.

That’s the problem with this damn country, why we’re flushing ourselves down: there’s no loyalty anymore. The second people can get something even a tiny bit better, newer or cheaper—whether it’s computers, neighborhood small businesses, cars, or spouses—they’ll dump what they have and go after the replacement. Disposable society. I was born too late. When’d the shit hit the fan? After WWII? No, sooner. Probably the 1920s, right around the time Henry Ford had to start advertising because the market was saturated with his autos. "You’re making ‘em too good, Henry," his advisers said. So, gradually they started cutting corners. Had to build the things so they’d eventually break and we’d have to buy new ones. I guess that was when it all started. I’m oversimplifying, but too bad—I’ve got to feed the cat.
 

4:20am
Saunter into the kitchen and hit the button for the auto-grinder on the coffee machine. Cuisinart. Gotta tell you, I love that company. Even if they have ties to the French—I’m not sure they do—Cuisinart's been good to me. When the grinder died on the first one, I shipped the unit back under warranty expecting them to give it a half-assed repair job and send it back. Instead I got a brand new coffeemaker, pot and all. Now that’s loyalty to the customer, baby!

I clean out the cat box while holding my breath. Hate this part of pet ownership. Wish I could hit some kind of Jetsons button and have the dirty litter sucked into outer space. Whatever. I do the nasty deed and pour in new litter and deodorizer. Nice and clean. Now as soon as she’s finished eating, she’ll promptly soil the thing. Great.

The clock says it’s four-thirty now. Need to get moving, start writing.

I dump the cat’s water from yesterday into a tropical plant a fellow teacher gave me seven years ago, back when I taught high school. Thing started out six inches tall, now it’s almost three feet. That plant’s done a good job. I think I’ll stick with it.

Put new water in dish, pull down one of the saucers we never use for teacups, and load up the saucer with Fancy Feast "Savory Salmon." Maybe the cat thinks it’s savory, but I’m ready to puke. Cat smells it, starts crying. "Here you go," I say and place her food and water in her little eating area. This cat has a good life. I’m a good papa to her.

Coffee’s done, so I pour myself a tall one, black, and get dressed: shorts and a thick L.L. Bean T-shirt. Socks, too. Time to get started.

4:45am
Well, my ass is in the chair. It's a start. Meanwhile, “Get Your Ass in the Chair.” A good title for book or how-to article. I write it down. (Meanwhile, you’re writing it down now. Oh well.)

I double-click on the icon for the novel, and when it comes up, I begin reading yesterday’s work. I’m making a few corrections here and there, but for a first draft it looks pretty good. Of course, as soon as I have to get ruthless—in the second draft—most of what I’ve written will get axed. Wish I could anticipate the problems and avoid going through the hell of cutting. Wish I were like Mozart, who apparently had the ability to do all of the editing in his head. Meanwhile, the guy’s long dead and in a pauper’s grave somewhere. At least that’s what they showed in Amadeus.

Meanwhile, I tell myself, you know who’s hot? The chick who plays his wife in that movie. At least she was hot in the film. Anyway, Mozart. Never read any biographies of ole’ Wolfgang. Note to self: "Read biography about Mozart. Or, if you don’t have time, just buy the new Amadeus DVD."
 

5:38am
I reach the end of yesterday’s work and it’s time to write the new stuff. Which I will, as soon as I correct a few papers for my Freshman Composition class. First, a coffee refill. Ahhhhh. Then I pull out a few of the grading sheets I created (another time I was avoiding writing) and plunge in. Over and over, the main problems I see in their work are grammatical, not structural: subject-verb agreement, dangling modifiers, apostrophe usage, commas, and run-on sentences. It’s depressing, but I press on.

By nature, I grade too liberally. I suppose it’s because I can’t blame the kids coming into college for not knowing this stuff. Heck, many of their own teachers don’t know it. It’s a process, I tell myself. Writing’s a process. How many times have we heard this tripe?

I can only correct a few student papers at a time because I quickly become overwhelmed by all of the mistakes. I do three and decide it’s time to check my email. I’ll get to my writing in just a moment.


6:25am
I write back to a couple of my faithful readers. One of them (a new guy) gives me such compliments on the site that I wonder if someone’s hacked into the NotWriting.com server and put up something strikingly good. So I open good old IE, go to NotWriting.com, and heave a sigh of relief when I see the same crap. Maybe it’s okay, though. Millions of readers can’t be wrong, right?

I start reading, reminding myself that I’m reading my own website. And you know what: some of it is good. I stumble upon "Ode to Dentists," a piece I originally wrote in the car, dictating to Alexas (my wife) while I drove. We were on our way to her grandmother’s birthday in Cleveland, Ohio. I remember liking it out there, liking the roads and how easy it was to get around.

I decide that "Ode to Dentists" is just the sort of inspirational piece that real dentists should read, if for no other reason than to know not everyone hates them. With this in mind, I go back online and look up the email addresses of a bunch of dental organizations: the American Dental Association, the Association of Women Dentists, the Royal College of Dentistry (Canada), and so on. Then I write them the following email, which includes a link to my story:

 

From: Christopher Orcutt <christopher.orcutt@verizon.net>
Date: Sat, 4 Oct 2003 08:02:30
To: <saralls@facd.org>, <reg-sg@icd.org>, <info@aawd.org>, <office@rcdc.ca>
Bcc: <christopher.orcutt@verizon.net>
Subject: Ode to Dentists


Hello. Since the dentistry profession is too often unfairly maligned, I thought you'd be interested to know there are some of us out there who appreciate the work that dentists do. The following is a link to an issue of my ongoing column in which I expound--philosophically at times--on dentists and dentistry. It is entitled, "Ode to Dentists." I hope you enjoy it.

http://www.notwriting.com/commentary_031303.htm

Sincerely,

Chris Orcutt
President, NotWriting.com

P.S.: In case you are suspicious of this email--I know I would be--NotWriting.com was chosen as a Yahoo! Editor's Best Pick for 2002, so you can know it's legit. Here's the link so you can see for yourself:

http://picks.yahoo.com/picks/20021201.html

NOTE: You'll need to scroll down on the page a bit to see the review.

NotWriting.com
Stuff one writer does when he should be writing

8:15am
New coffee, like I need it. I’m finishing up my email when I start thinking about how cool it would be to be able to access my Hotmail account using Outlook Express. I’m going to try setting it up.


9:26am
Screw it. Did everything the "help" file told me to do and the SOB keeps crashing. Had to reboot about five times. I’m finally able to delete the added Hotmail account from OE. Now things are back to normal.


9:40am
Decide a hot shower is in order. It’ll refresh me for my writing. Hard to believe I’ve been up for 5 1/2 hours.


10:12am
Back in the chair. I edit the last line of yesterday’s work, and now I know I’m ready to start. I type the following line, my first new sentence of the day: "The tree curved in near the base, creating an ergonomic hollow into which his lower back fit nicely." Now what? The tree gives out on him, topples over, and crushes a house? I sit for a while near the window, just staring out there, convinced the answer will come if I’m quiet enough.


10:47am
I can’t do this anymore. Not just today—all of it. I should just quit writing altogether. Why bother? Even if this thing gets published, eventually the sun will burn out and then what?


11:00am
Maybe what I need is a change of venue. Go in the other room and do a little writing in one of my notebooks. Kind of talk to myself, except write it down so I can work out the problems I’m having with the character and what the hell he’s doing.


I pick a blue single-subject notebook from the stack on my desk and a .7mm EnerGel pen (black ink). Writing material in hand, I shuffle into the living room. The TV’s still on. Forgot to shut it off I guess. I go to click the power button and a strange thing happens: my thumb goes into involuntary spasms on the channel selector until the set reaches MTV. I have an empty notebook, a new pen, and solitude—every writer’s ideal situation—yet CRIBS is on now. I put down the writing implements temporarily.

Today on CRIBS, they’re showing the homes of Shaggy (the rapper, not that dork on Scooby Doo that I’d like to assault with a mace) and Curtis Martin, running back for the NY Jets. Shaggy’s house is okay, but he’s a little too full of himself for my taste. Meanwhile, Shaggy, what do you do, make that stupid thump-thump music I hear anytime guys from the ‘hood roll by in their Range Rovers with the 5000-watt subwoofers? I give him a year before he dries up and blows away. Reminds me a little of Milli-Vanilli, especially when they remarked they were "bigger than the Beatles," to which Billy Joel said what I said about Shaggy: "They’ll dry up and blow away in the wind."

Curtis Martin’s place is surprisingly understated and elegant. He’s a well-spoken, polite guy, too, which is nice to see. You’d think that, as a running back in the NFL, his brains would be mush by now, but he seems like something of a thinker. Among other neat things in his "crib," Martin has a set of picture frames with little journals hidden inside. He’s delightfully demure when he remarks, "Probably shouldn’t have shown you that. Personal."

In his bathroom, Martin has a stand-up urinal. He remarks that this is something all guys should have so they aren’t getting in trouble with their wives over the whole toilet seat up/down thing. Then he shows us the shower. He has a metal chair he can bring in with him and sit down while water rains down on him from an overhead nozzle. Pretty good.
 

12:00pm
High noon. Hungry. A little sustenance, and I’ll be ready to hit the writing full-tilt.

I’m going to make chicken. There’s a package of boneless breasts in the refrigerator, which I trim up and slice into thin filets. I pour a generous amount of Extra Virgin olive oil in a pan and get that sucker good-‘n-hot. Meanwhile, I dust both sides of the filets with the following mixture I made up one night:

1. Lawry’s Seasoned Salt (no MSG!)
2. Red Cayenne Pepper
3. Rosemary (the dried stuff from a jar)

If you do this, go easy on the Cayenne Pepper. I know the Lawry’s salt is horrible for you, but then again, it sho’ is tasty. Something about the contrast between the spicy pepper and the refined taste of the rosemary makes this a succulent dish—at least I think so.
 

12:22pm
Sitting down with a plate of my fine chicken and switch on AMC (American Movie Classics). My favorite Clint Eastwood Western, High Plains Drifter, is on. With the plate of hot chicken in my lap, I’m in heaven.


2:00pm
Movie over, it’s time to get down to business. I return to my office and stare at the screen.


2:03pm
The doorbell rings. It’s Fedex. My wife’s sister sent her a gift certificate for tanning.
 

2:07pm
Now I’m discombobulated. That damn doorbell screwed me up. I grab a stack of student papers and retreat to the living room, where a BRAVO profile about Denzel Washington is on the tube and I can correct papers during the commercials.

Denzel Washington, I soon learn, is what you’d call an "actor’s actor." My wife, who has done a few TV commercials and a ton of theater, informs me that Washington began the way all real actors do—on the stage. All I keep saying is that I’ve liked every single film he’s been in. I say this about six times. Alexas nods in assent.


3:16pm
Feeling cooped up. Maybe a nice walk will clear my head and enable me to write.


3:32pm
After some debate, Alexas elects to come with me. We head out.


4:12pm
We end up at a small local movie theater with a four-thirty showing of Le Divorce, which, if the producers had been honest, would have been titled Le Crap. Afterwards, we go to dinner at an overpriced Italian place and walk home in the early autumn gloaming.


7:49pm
Okay, I’m finally going to do it. I’m going to write now. I fire up the iMac again and load the novel.

In my chair, hands hovering over the keyboard, I recall a line from Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art: "All professionals know that the hard part isn’t the writing; the hard part is sitting down to write."

Fuck you, Steve.

After three agonizing false starts, I get four sentences down. Seventy-one words, which, combined with my 18 words from this morning, comes to a rousing total of 89. This leaves me short of my 1,250-word quota (about five pages) by only 1,161.
 

8:33pm
Alexas is laughing in the other room. I can’t help myself; I have to see what’s so funny.

8:34pm
She’s watching one of our favorite movies, Office Space. I’m going to stay to see the scene in which they smash up the fax machine, and that’s it.


10:11pm
Okay, so I stayed for the entire movie. I’m still going to get my pages done.


10:16pm
Determined, I pull out my antique L.C. Smith & Corona typewriter and crank in a sheet of paper. I read a quote above my writing desk, the one I habitually turn to when really desperate. It’s by Terry McMillan.

"I think most writers suffer from writer’s block because they’re trying too hard to make it perfect out of the gate when, in fact, they should be writing it for themselves, as if no one is ever going to read it at all."

I pound the desk with both fists.

"Do it, England," I say.

And then another strange thing happens—the second one today. All of my digits curl inward, except my two forefingers, which are inexplicably drawn toward the keyboard. One letter, then another, then a word, then another word. Not wanting to jinx it, I stop thinking and just let my fingers do their work.

 

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©2003 Chris Orcutt and www.notwriting.com. All rights reserved.