An author's battle against procrastination.
I’ve snuck out and my parents don’t know where I am because it’s 1998 and cell phones aren’t a thing.
It’s late because I spent all night drinking, showing off to a bunch of college kids I don’t know.
The party was a bust and I’m on the road now before I get into some real trouble.
It’s interesting when there isn’t any lights and there’s a guy on the side of the road.
Sometimes I wonder…
Is there anybody out there? Is anyone really out there?
Firstly, I must apologize. Where I said I would write one short story a week for 52 weeks, I posted the last short story late Saturday night, minutes before midnight. Now for all the things I promised myself I won’t do, making excuses is at the very top.
“Baby, it’s time to get up,” Camille said.
“Okay,” Richie mumbled with his face buried in his pillow.
“Come on, sweet pea. You’re going to be late and I can’t drive you to school,” Camille returned to Richie’s doorway to say. After a few moments, she returned. “Richard, I am not feeling well and I don’t have time for this.” Camille peered into the darkness and saw something wasn’t right.
This week in the life of an author in a battle against procrastination, I learned something very important. The importance of balance. Without it, your life can be thrown to the wayside very quickly.
I submitted an audio play idea of mine called The Fall of Adam and it was accepted. You can vote for me here. I have now added social networking and marketing to my repertoire. Some have real panache for it. I’m engaging in social media in a way that I have never done before, but between you and me, I prefer writing. However, I must say that this poses a new writing challenge for me: how would I script the presentation of me as an author to the world? With that blank canvas, I see possibilities.
It doesn’t matter who I am.
We all have an expiration date. If life goes (and trust me it goes) you might be like some people and keep your head down really down, buried under all your grief, pain and misery, wondering why life was so awful. You keep this up for years and then 60 years pass you by and then BOOM; your expiration date arrives.
Wednesday, Two-thousand something something…
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I stare at myself through the reflection of a cracked mirror. This isn’t an allegory that I’m fractured. Please, this isn’t poetry.
I can see my molars through the different shards as I yawn. Fillings. Metal. That’d be a bitch if if they cracked. I brush my teeth diligently ‘cause I don’t like implied future pain. And for the love of God, floss. There’s a broken brush in front of me. My hair is messy. Knotting. Now, this is optional. What a conundrum. Who am I brushing for? Me? The big Man upstairs? I always wanted Rastafarian locks.
“Alright Brian, what’s on the agenda today?”
