If you are human, you often find yourself drifting apart from reality or finding something with which to distract your mind from whatever menial tasks require your attention. As you wander through the sludge of boredom and monotony, you are pulled deeper into a nearly inescapable, perilous journey that will inevitably become your downfall: procrastination.
As any writer knows, the worst way to start the day is by checking your e-mail and getting a form rejection letter fresh from the editor’s outgoing folder. The reactions come in stages: excitement, shock, denial, rage, and finally, acceptance. Much like grief, when you think about it. So when I woke this morning in my usual grumpy haze and checked my latest correspondence, I was quite understandably frustrated with the world and all things therein.
When I was in that strange, otherworldly plane of existence that is working full time, I had the opportunity to catch many half-finished conversations and personality quirks from co-workers. They thought me too brain dead to pay attention to anything outside of a one-foot radius from my caffeine-fatigued body, but they thought wrong. It was normally five feet.
This may or may not sound familiar:
“So! I hear that you are a writer.”
“Ah, well…yes, I suppose.”
“What do you write?”
“Oh, you know…this and that.”
“Do you write books?”
“What sort of books? What are they about?”
“Well, it’s fiction, mostly. It would be hard to explain.”
“What sort of fiction?”
Cue the slide whistle.