Yesterday I was alone at home for the first time in a couple of weeks. The boys were at school. Husband at work. I had hours ahead of me to write (I'm working on a book) or at the very least - to crapt. I mean, I do need to finish that God awful circle piece but did I write? Did I crapt? NO! What did I do? I watched TV. A two week old Lost. A two week old 30 Rock. A last night The Real Housewives of New Jersey (shows you my viewing priorities - don't let the paint dry before I'll watch the Housewives wherever they might reside). I kept telling myself to get up and do something but the thought of doing anything seemed utterly exhausting. So I didn't.
So, I was trying to analyze why I procrastinate. It doesn't make me feel good about myself, so where is the benefit? My mother always said I was lazy but I'm apparently only lazy when it comes to things that might prove beneficial to myself such as writing or crapting. I've never been lazy when I've been paid to work. I'm a powerfully good multi-tasker. Yesterday while waiting for some chicken to brown I cleaned the kitchen sink. If I was truly lazy, I would have just sat there. I'm never late with library books. So I'm not thoroughly lazy. Just kinda lazy.
This is a conundrum I've been going over for all of my adult life, which is quite a long time at this point. I've probably done more writing on the subject of why I don't write than actual fiction writing. And I've never figured it out. If only I could get to the little pieces of my brain, all those atoms, synapses, curly-cues that hold the key to why I don't do what I should do. There's a code in there somewhere - neurons leading to synapses leading to glands - giving the answer to my life long question. If I ever decipher it, I could write a thriller about it. A DaVinci Code about my brain. I'd call it the Dawdling Cipher.