How To Convince Yourself to Work

Busy week this week. Managed to be decently productive this morning, which was impressive and also a great indicator of just how busy I expect this week to be—I was in panic-production mode from the get-go. (‘Course then I got something done, and had another thing canceled, so the productivity didn’t go too far.)

It’s a full week of writing, too, which is neat—better than a week of meetings and interviews—but also intimidating. Creativity-on-deadline is a stressful thing, even if it usually winds up ok when I just keep putting one word in front of the other. The first sentence is the hardest.

So I’ve got a big feature due (I’m done with the research, which is always a relief but means I need to, say, create a document for the writing, at the very least—considering they do want it this week, and I assured them that that was possible) and another smaller section of a feature (most of which I finished this morning, yay me). Column was canceled due to space restrictions—which is fine by me—and I’m getting frighteningly un-stressed about slacking on my work blog.

Tomorrow is our weekly Tuesday afternoon meeting, but then at 3:30 I’ve got a ticket to a film festival flick about hockey. This is a good thing, but I know missing official working hours panics my bosses about getting my writing done—and when my bosses are panicked, I am more so.

Wednesday I’ll stay home to write. This is a luxurious option for a full-time job, but like I said: Productivity is expected. Come into the office, and I could have decent excuses for not getting stuff done. Stay home to write, and I’m expected to…write.

Thursday I’ve got another film festival flick in the evening, and another film festival thing Friday night. These shouldn’t necessarily interfere with my writing, but they are other things to think about.

This is what my Wednesday will look like, except hopefully with more words on the screen.

This is what my Wednesday will look like, except hopefully with more words on the screen.


Saturday looms large with such vast openness and…stuff…that it’s hard to ponder, knowing there are still 1,800 unwritten words between now and then.

It’s just, I have to do tricky things with my brain to get my writing done. And yes, I’ve got a decent amount of experience with this, but it’s still a weird little mental dance. Stress too much, and I’m paralyzed; don’t stress enough, and I won’t bother with it at all. Gotta keep slipping away from the stress while still focusing enough on it to get the document in front of my eyes and my fingers on the keyboard. It’s like a magic-eye picture: Look right at it, but…don’t look at it. Right?

I dunno; I always sucked at those things. I’m better at trying straight-up try-hard than that subversive look-like-you’re-not-trying bullshit. And I’m pretty lazy for straight-up try-hard, too.

In the end, I’ll get it done. What I don’t know is how much sobbing and rending of garments will be involved.


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