Tasks are like water. They flow and ooze to fit the container they’re given, not matter the size and the shape. In my case, it’s not even a conscious decision. If I give myself a bigger window, I’ll swing it open until the sash meets the frame, every single time.
I start out with good intentions. Sometimes I set timers, and that helps, shrinking the window to more of a pass-through. But other times, my brain rebels, it stalls and sputters and insists that whatever needs to be done can’t be done quite at this time, but don’t worry, requests are being taken in the order in which they are received.
Yeah, right. Meanwhile it’s prioritizing the stack of shows on my TiVo.
One thing I’ve learned fighting my true procrastinating nature is that many things take far less time than you think that they will. Sometimes they become huge in my mind, crammed with the hassle that I imagine they hold, and then, boom, I’m finished almost before I’ve started.
Writing’s never one of those things, though. Writing is it’s own animal, and it takes as long as it’s going to take.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.