I’m forever putting off the important stuff by occupying myself with the trivialities of life. Why pursue priorities when there are dishes to be washed and mail to be sorted? Now I’ll grant you that neither …[MORE]]]> Good news, everyone: I’m going to live forever! At least that’s the conclusion you might draw if you examined my behavior.

I’m forever putting off the important stuff by occupying myself with the trivialities of life. Why pursue priorities when there are dishes to be washed and mail to be sorted? Now I’ll grant you that neither dishes nor mail can be ignored forever, but when you allow such activities to fill your day to the exclusion of the really important things, you’ve got a problem. A big problem.

Procrastination is something we all do. Some of us do it a lot. Long ago, I heard or read somewhere that the source of all procrastination is fear. You put off sitting down to file your taxes until the last minute because you fear an audit, or that you’ll owe a lot more than you can pay, or that you won’t be able to understand the instructions. Fear keeps us from even attempting what we need to accomplish.

Sometimes I will dread some absolute necessity so much that I put it off all day because the very thought of it makes for too much anxiety to bear. Occasionally, though, when I finally get around to doing that thing, it goes smoothly and effortlessly. This leaves me feeling crushed, realizing that I’ve wasted an entire day wallowing in anxiety about something that was really a breeze. It makes me feel foolish. It makes me long to have that day back so I can take care of business first, then spend the rest of the day in productive pursuits (or even delicious idleness).

There’s just one catch: you can never get that day back. Foolishness is not grounds for a second chance.

I keep a personal journal. I write in it practically every day. The contents are mostly the minutia of life: the daily doings, the household chores, to-do lists and such. I try to limit to this journal all my writing about writing. I don’t know about you, but writers who write too much about writing bore me. But the pertinent fact is that writing is what I really want to do, and there are too many days that I think about it and write about it, but don’t actually do it. That’s a critical disconnect. No matter how celebrated a writer I could someday be, there’s zero chance of realizing that dream without actually sitting down to write.

I have to keep reminding myself of that simple fact. I have to keep remembering that I’m not going to live forever. I have to keep in mind that I’d rather try and fail than not try and be filled with regret. But why are these lessons so hard? Why must they be relearned every day?

I don’t think I’m the only one with this problem. I think a lot of us are sleepwalking through our lives, with little or no thought to the path we’re on. A lot of us never quite getting around to doing what we want to do or need to do because we think there will always be a tomorrow. It’s a comforting lie, but a lie nonetheless.

What is your priority today? Is it a true priority, or is it one of those things that fills the time so you won’t run any chance of facing your true priority? Don’t sell yourself short. Don’t waste whatever precious time you have. No matter what you might like to think, you’re not going to live forever.

And neither am I.

Later, in another blog, I found another recommendation for the very same reading. This time I clicked. Take my word for it: don’t keep reading. Click on this powerful performance by [now deceased] …[MORE]]]> One of my Facebook buddies recently recommended a poetry video and I thought, “Sounds good,” then I kept on reading and never checked the link.

Later, in another blog, I found another recommendation for the very same reading. This time I clicked. Take my word for it: don’t keep reading. Click on this powerful performance by [now deceased] poet Gabrielle Bouliane. You won’t soon forget it.

So? What are you waiting for?

Recently, while …[MORE]]]> I am locked in an eternal struggle with paper. I trash it, shred it, file it, use it, reuse it, recycle it, and constantly strive to reduce it in my life. My efforts are in vain: it just keeps coming in the door. I haven’t given up yet, but I have begun to despair.

Recently, while contemplating this unrelenting nemesis, I was moved to commemorate my battle in verse. I shared it with a few Toastmaster friends, and they encouraged me to put it up here. With profuse apologies to Edgar Allan Poe, I offer this semi-original composition:

THE POSTMAN

Once upon a gloomy Monday,
While I pondered vast and sundry
Piles of mail that had been stacking up for almost half a year,
I began to feel unable—
Could I hope to clear the table?
It’s been ages since I’ve even caught a glimpse of its veneer.
I can do this, I decided,
And I won’t be stopped by fear.
I will make this surface clear.

Ah distinctly I remember,
It was August or September
When I last attempted to perform the task before me here.
I began with great ambition
But I soon lost all volition
And the daunting job before me soon relieved me of my cheer.
I had barely scratched the surface
When my hope did disappear
As I noticed: Postman’s here.

Even though that effort fizzled,
My new purpose fairly sizzled.
I determined that this eyesore would be gone before New Year.
I began the job by sorting
Garbage mail from that reporting
Information that I needed, though the lines began to blear,
Then there came a heavy footstep
And the dog barked in my ear—
Heaven help me! Postman’s here.

In the piles I found the latest
Flyers that announced the greatest
Sales of merchandise awaiting customers both far and near,
Catalogs of goods and service,
Notices that made me nervous,
I began to doubt my purpose and my will began to veer.
Patience was the thing I needed,
And perhaps an ice cold beer.
Then the bell rang. Postman’s here!

Daily I renewed my vigor,
But the stacks were getting bigger!
How could mail be multiplying right before my eyes? How queer!
I recycled all the pages,
Filed away the bills in stages—
There were never any wages paid me for this new career,
So it shouldn’t be surprising
Though my effort was sincere
It soon failed me—Postman’s here!

How it happened, there’s no knowing,
But the pile just kept on growing.
Soon it mounted high enough it almost touched the chandelier!
Lest my home become a hovel,
I attacked it with a shovel!
Then an avalanche engulfed me and my peril brought a tear.
“Is there no one who can save me?”
Then a figure did appear.
Not salvation—Postman’s here!

The saga is still going on.
From late at night until the dawn
I struggle to control the mail—my hear is strong, my purpose clear—
Yet the flow is unrelenting,
Still persisting, still preventing
Me from dining on my table, furniture I once held dear.
Will I ever best this monster?
Mount its head upon my spear?
That’s unlikely—Postman’s here!

When life is over and the Fates
Escort me to Saint Peter’s gates,
I expect him to deport me southward with a grinning leer.
My early years are lost in haze—
Shameless nights and wasted days.
Only one consoling thought will comfort me as flames draw near:
Here, at least, I won’t be fighting
Stacks of mail I need to clear.
I stand corrected!—Postman’s here!

I was born a writer. I recall being a writer as far back as first or second grade. I wrote a newspaper parody in fourth grade and started my first novel by the age …[MORE]]]> I vacillated over the subtitle of this blog: should it be “A writer’s journal” or “A writer’s journey”? Both are somewhat accurate.

I was born a writer. I recall being a writer as far back as first or second grade. I wrote a newspaper parody in fourth grade and started my first novel by the age of twelve or thirteen. Somewhere along the way, though, my writer-self became my hostage. I bound it, gagged it, kept it in a dark cellar. I beat it, humiliated it and tortured it, but it refused to die.

Like a weed in concrete, it keeps breaking through. It exists. It insists. It persists.

So I’m relenting. I’m writing every day—well, almost every day—and I’ll be offering a fair sampling of it here. In these pages you’ll find observations, musings, rants, writing exercises, grocery lists and woolgathering. There’s bound to be a little something for everyone.

Enjoy!