I missed my deadline this morning — I usually like to have something scheduled to publish for 6 AM each day.
What I’ve been doing is writing during the day and scheduling the post for the following day so I don’t stress on any single day.
But, like promised, I missed a day. Caught a cold on Tuesday night and was in bed most of Wednesday, and today, Thursday… there’s no essay. Nothing pushed out at 6 AM. The only thing that happened this morning was a lot of sneezing and nose-blowing.
It’s strange, I can feel the stereotypical methods of procrastination sinking in, even while sick. It’s like a sly troll, cuddling in bed with me, green slithery arms wrapping themselves up in my bed sheets. “You already missed your deadline, what does it matter now?” and “It’s 9 AM? You can wait until 10 or 11 AM. There’s no urgency anymore.”
“I mean, you already missed your deadline. Who’s waiting up on you?”
Then, even more dangerous thoughts: “Well what would happen if you just missed a day? It’s not like it really matters to anyone if you keep up this schedule. You’re just doing this for yourself. It’s an arbitrary deadline.”
Yes, it’s an arbitrary deadline. Yes, it’s “just” a small goal I have for myself, to practice writing every day. And yes, it would be okay — the world would get on, I would get on — if I missed a day.
And if I were so sick I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t do anything — sure, I could take a break.
But I just spent an hour scrolling on Facebook, another hour staring at a wall, and I answered a few work emails. Bed is doing me good, and I’m getting plenty of rest — but am I really “too sick” to write?
Wait, would you look at that.
I just wrote something.
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