This morning I'm giving out a productivity award. I'm giving it to Jack Shit, who inspired all of the inactivity I accomplished thus far today.
Jack and I go way back. I've always been a world class procrastinator. "Never put off 'till tomorrow what you can put off 'till the day after tomorrow," that's my motto. Also "There's no better time than some other time."
I actually woke up early to come downstairs and write. I usually drink a cup of coffee and check a few blogs while I wake up. Today that took longer than normal.
So 7am rolled around and an unusual fit of productivity kicked in, mainly because the video of the deadliest spider in the world was over, and I took the trash out. The sound of the garage door woke the kids, who came downstairs to make sure that my bout of usefulness was only temporary.
Of course I welcomed the reprieve, which gave me an opportunity to explore Google Earth with my son for a few minutes. He got hungry and went into the kitchen. Or I got frustrated and pushed him out of the room and locked the door. I can't remember which is fantasy and which is reality at this point, primarily because my coffee cup is empty.
Point of note, mid-way through typing the preceding paragraph I was interrupted by my wife, asking if we should keep a set of oil-based pastel crayons. Tough decisions like this are an added distraction. It's a good thing I was not on a productive streak, working on my novel and pondering a complex issue dealing with the narrative prose, or the delicate balance between deep literary characterization and the "just get on with the plot" pacing of a thriller, for I surely would have derailed.
Best way to avoid derailing: stay off the tracks.
And that's why, this morning, I dedicate all that I did not accomplish to Jack Shit.