Well, it seems that in the epic battle between procrastination and motivation, procrastination is Muhammad Ali and motivation is Frankie Cocozza (if you watch reality T.V. you can see why I’ve used him, I’m sure, if not, think of a teenage rock/punk star wannabe with stringy legs in skinny jeans and begrimed untamed hair and who probably has multiple STDs). In other words, motivation is more than very much dead. Yes, if you had cared enough to see my latest post, you would have learnt, from my new ‘Hot Press’ section (designed to inform the faithful readership of new and exciting developments, plans and ambitions in both my blog and my life that everyone should know and care about), that I intend to upload my first ‘official’ piece of literary work – if you will – at some point in the not-so-far off future.
To get to the point, right now I couldn’t care for much, it’s too bloody cold in this stupid mouldy student house so that not only can I see my own breath inside on a regular basis, but I have about twelve layers on, over my thermals. And the snow isn’t deep enough to actually cause any kind of disruption to the humdrum routine, and that irritates me at the moment. My bank account seems to continue p*ssing itself down the drain even though I literally do nothing to utilise my already measly financial resources. For some reason, which I cannot for the life of me explain because I have done nothing out of my ordinary lay-about activities, my body aches from my twatting left little toe to the outside corner of my right eye. All this has only exacerbated my procrastination. Hence, and to finally arrive at the main subject of my post, I have taken a little longer to write my ‘short story’ than I had intended. Still, it is making progress, and I have surprised myself in learning I have written the equivalent length of an entire essay in my short story in less than two days, which is about fifty-eight days less than it takes me to write an essay. That must say something.
Already hacked off with most of the values and outlooks that many in their ivory towers seem to take on the world (interpreting anything from anything – such as the theory that the author of a book is entirely irrelevant in any context – and insisting their own theories are relevant to everyone’s daily lives and those who don’t agree should be condemned to the far corners of the world of Academia), I feel I would like to express myself fully – when I’m not ranting to my Mum or mates, particularly one or two long-suffering house mates – via the medium of writing… By that I mean non-academic writing. Writing which isn’t writing about other writers’ theories about other writers who write about the many anxieties in their life story. Yes, that sums up my degree. Sometimes I would rather grate my face with an industrial lemon zester.
Also, if you were indeed wondering, I have no idea why I picked that title for this blog post, because looking at it now it seems almost total sewerage. Other than a semi-pop-culture/inter-medial reference to a world famous space opera franchise which helps to objectify the two ends of the spectrum which determines a person’s ability to induce or produce something, as well as having a very vague level of appeal to a wide audience, it serves no other relevance to the post. But, thanks to my non-existent care, I don’t care.
I will leave you with a more detailed update of the writing situation. I imagine I should have it finished in the same length of time it took for the events in a far far away galaxy to be told by a Mr. Lucas, or there abouts.
In all seriousness, watch this space, when my motivation finally does return – which I guarantee it will – it will only be a matter of time before you read the greatest piece of writing on this blog in all of history.
For your amusement whilst continuing to be doing things you shouldn’t be doing but are doing to avoid doing things you should be doing: http://www.wimp.com/procrastinatemuch/ (My life summarised in under two minutes).