I sat down this morning to write the first draft of the first piece of my volunteer writing project. And I’m shocked that it took form so quickly. Thirty or forty-five minutes for a final piece that will probably be about 500 words. I’m not breaking any speed records, but I anticipated hours of agony.
Because I’d been putting it off starting days. I mean: days. And when I put things off, mountains seem taller and steeper. Mostly, I delayed because that gangster Anxiety had been tightening his fingers around my throat and I can do nothing efficiently when he’s around. But partly because I just hate writing the first draft. It’s choppy, grammatically incorrect and disjointed.
I’d rather do anything than write a first draft. (I learned that my girl Peggy is the same way which makes me feel less like a writing leper.) It’s always been that way, but in the romanticism surrounding the decision to write, I had forgotten.
So I had to set a deadline. And I don’t feel good about deadlines, but I feel worse about missing them: I scheduled it for tomorrow. So I had to get crackin’. I’ll make it though because the rest of the process is not nearly as arduous as getting started.
*Yes, the title is also a Sheryl Crow song.