The best kind of procrastination is productive procrastination. Maybe it’s a sign of maturity and wisdom but, as of late, I find myself procrastinating on important things with less-important-but-still-valuable things. It’s better than just losing your mind and energy to Instagram or Netflix. Let’s break down my day thus far as an example. 

This morning I woke up around 7 a.m., quite reluctantly I should add because sleep is my lover and best friend. Last night I didn’t sleep too well, though, which I blame on the spicy burrito I inhaled for dinner. It was delicious but I had regrets. Also, I’m not sure when precisely it happened, maybe in my mid-20s, but my body cannot tolerate spicy foods any more. It (my body) rejects them orally, gastrointestinally, and sleepily. I’m not saying that I was ever a spicy food fanatic but my tolerance used to be much higher. Nowadays mild salsa can’t be mild enough.

Anyway, I woke up at 7 and only had an hour of work to do. Let me repeat that. I only had one single, literal hour of work to do today for my job. That was it. One hour and then I was free. You’re quite welcome to envy my existence, however, let me show you my bank statements first. I digress. 

After my hour of work, I was determined to write. I go through this ritual nearly every week. In my silly dream world, I post a blog piece on Friday morning, then have a first draft of next week’s post finished by the end of the weekend. The emphasis here should be on “silly dream world,” as this rarely happens. Lately my modus operandi is to wake up on Monday, realize I didn’t write a single word over the weekend, then ease into low-grade anxiety. I proceed to ignore that anxiety until Tuesday night when I start to gather up some thoughts about that week’s post. Notice I haven’t done any actual writing yet. Then on Wednesday I put just a few crappy words down. None of them form sentences, much less ideas, just yet. By late Thursday morning, I’m in slight panic because I need to have the blog ready to publish before bedtime. Then it’s frantic typing on my computer, like a cartoon madman. 

To my credit, it’s not that I have done zero writing this week. On a scale of abysmal-to-excellent, I would say this week’s writing has landed on “medium spicy,” aka two peppers. I’ve accomplished maybe 57% of what I intended. Not horrible. None of it has been blog writing though. This week was all about working on the one-man show. For good reason, I might add, because it’s approximately T-minus 11 days until I land in Geneva to workshop that one-man show. And by 11 days, I mean 11 days, 16 hours, 10 minutes, and 48 seconds approximately. [Don’t know what I’m talking about? Read this.]

Nevertheless, here we are at Thursday morning and I have no blog thoughts, words, or ideas ready. 

Okay, Donohue. You got this. You’re a blogging champion.

Once I get home from that one hour of work with a client I put on my comfy pants, which, let’s be honest here, just means I take off my pants. I can think clearly with no pants. I’m determined to get some serious blogging done. I’m hungry though. We must fix that. So I decide to make a 9-course breakfast real quick because who in their right mind can write on an empty stomach. Literally no one. My breakfast involved roasting potatoes. I needed to roast potatoes before I could write. My brain makes zero sense to me. 

Once breakfast is ready, I bring it upstairs to my room. It’s time to write. I picture myself contemplatively sitting before a masterfully written blog post while causally grazing on my delicious breakfast. In my vision, I giggle from time to time at my own witty writing. With a piping hot cup of coffee nearby, I am the very vision of a writer. A true writer’s writer, roasted potatoes and all. 

I go to put down the plate on my desk only to realize, Houston we have a problem. My desk is in absolute shambles. There is crap, not literal, everywhere. Papers are stacked up. There’s trash littered about. I have to put my breakfast on my bedside table, for lack of space. 

I stare in dismay at the desk. How did it get this bad? Surely I’ve been looking at it for weeks on end but how is it possible that I truly haven’t seen it before now? The one day I really need my desk, is the one day all that clutter comes a-callin’ my name. For some reason, in that moment, I decide I need to do something about it. I will not go write at the kitchen table. No, I will not find a clutterfree environment, such as a coffee shop or library, to do my work. I must clean all the clutter right here, right now. In order to be a writer I need to have a clean desk, even if I have to clean it myself. 

I begin the process of sorting through every single, solitary piece of paper on that desk. That image I had, the one of my writer-self sitting back relishing in my own writerness, was quickly replaced with a pants-less me sitting at my desk with a plate of potatoes perched on my lap sorting through loose recipes and old parking tickets.

The whole thing is absolutely baffling. It is 2019 (I think), why do we even need papers? Shouldn’t the human race have figured out how to be fully paperless? Everything I ever need is on my phone or online. There has never been a time where I thought to myself, “Gosh darn it! The information I need right now is on that one piece of paper that I got in the mail that one time. What ever will I do?!” Never once have I needed that old check stub. I’ve never needed the instruction manual to my essential oil diffuser. And I would bet $40,000 that I will never need the receipt for that oil change I got 6 years ago. But here we are, potatoes in hand, as I sort through those exact slips of paper which are preventing me from getting my writing done. 

As I sat there purging all the things I’ll never need while blindly stuffing potatoes into my gob, it dawned on me that this is a lifelong battle of mine. I really hate to admit it but I’m a messy person. Anyone who knows me well is thinking, “duh idiot.” But I just hate A) that I’m that person and B) that I haven’t been able to fix this in the last 30 years. 

When I was younger my mom would always ask why half my clothes were on the floor when I had a perfectly good hamper in the corner. I never had a reasonable answer for her. Right now, I have a pillow in my car that’s been there so long that I’ve forgotten why I brought it out there in the first place. There are two boxes of stuff that move with me from apartment to apartment to apartment. I’ve had them so long that I’ve forgotten what’s inside.

Even though I was cloaked in shame for being such a dirty birdie, cleaning off the desk felt great. I filed away some of the papers, the ones I would probably never need but not definitely never need. At long last, the desk started to emerge. I had forgotten what color it was.

A potato coma settled over me and I realized that I was exhausted from all the paper purging/organizing/filing/burning I did. Sure, the desk was now a viable work space but I was tired. It was nothing a quick little nap couldn’t fix. I rolled my ass on over to the bed. The next thing I know it’s two hours later. My whole morning was gone. It was now early afternoon and I didn’t have a lick of this post written. 

I finally sat down at my desk. It was a thing of beauty. Time to write. All the conditions were perfect. Except, wait a minute. Hold on. I’m picking up on something. That’s right, I’m hungry again. Clearly I can’t write on an empty stomach, we’ve already established that. So I go downstairs to make myself a quick little meal of homemade pancakes and eggs. It’s 3 o’clock so I’m not sure what meal one might call it. Late lunch? Early dinner? I wouldn’t call it early dinner because that implies that I’m done with eating for the day, which, clearly, I’m not. I settle on “late lunch.”

Finally I get back up to my computer. It’s time to get to the writing of this thing. My desk is cleared. My belly is full. I’ve napped. There is not a single excuse in the world for me to not write a great blog post. I have absolutely no reason in the world I shouldn’t be able to do that now. Like right now, this very instant. 

That’s when I realize, “oh shit dummy, you don’t have anything to say.” Then I spiral into a whole thing about how I’m a bad writer and no one cares about my writing and I’m an imposter anyway. I’m an imposter writer as well as an imposter actor. I’m basically an imposter human who has no value or worth. I bring nothing to the table whatsoever. I’m the purest garbage there is. It’s like I’m that 6 year-old oil change receipt.

Wait.

Hold on. 

This is a little dramatic. 

Just tell the people about your day. Tell them about all the amazing things you accomplished while you weren’t doing the thing you were supposed to be doing. Write about the meals and the naps and the chores you did before you sat down and got to work. Tell them about the crazy things that go through your head because maybe something similar goes through their head. Tell them you’ll write something much better next week. 

So that’s what I did. 

Check out this week’s photo contributors:

Artem Beliakin

Tran Bich

Sheena Wood