It ought be widely known that a writer’s great art is not the act of writing. All the magic of writing is easily summed up with this simple arithmetic:
clever start + clever middle + clever end + clever bits of glue == written work
The real artistry of a writer is his or her ability to procrastinate. It is the active sabotage of one’s own time. I am now and have been for some great while actively procrastinating. I am well aware of this.
Procrastination
the doing of a great deal of nothing
I have all the time a person could ask for. I have no responsibilities beyond the feeding and watering of my own self. My day begins and ends when I determine it would be best to lay down or rise up. Yet, I procrastinate doing the one thing I profess to be my greatest happiness.
Perhaps the art isn’t so much Procrastination as it is Self-Delusion.
I was going to write a great deal more on this topic but I feel a sudden need to tidy something.
