Eaton Hamilton

I have a finely honed sense of outrage when it comes to my own sloth and laziness.  Which, of late, is rampant.  (What am I talking about?  It’s been rampant for three years, more or less, ever since my marriage went tits up.)  I have paperwork lying on my office floor that needed to be dealt with a month ago.  Hell, I have paperwork in my office that needed to be dealt with three years ago.  It’s been there so long the cat has barfed on it.  It’s been there so long–more or less on the pathway to the balcony–that it is covered with muddy footprints.

Have I dealt with it?  No.  None of it.  I work on the system of putting out fires.  There’s a fire.  A little emergent flame.  A bill that needs to be paid.  I pay it.  Huff, huff and phew.

Can I rationalize this slack ridiculous behaviour which leaves me feeling guilty almost full time?  Sort of.

Here’s how I do it:  I write.  I have this life guideline that writing is more important than any other endeavor, so, if I can make writing come out (any kind of writing come out) on a day when I am scheduled to take care of business, then I don’t have to take care of business.  Sadly, I can claim that laziness and avoidance produced my new volume of poetry, those who love, this fall.  And since I finished that, the impulse to write–which I hasten to add ought to be going towards novel re-writes–has gone towards making “occasional” articles.  And so if I pick up the keyboard to make something–an article, a poem, a glance at the novel–I absolutely get a pass on the nasty tasks of organizing my life.

Such a system, eh?  Creativity equals release from reality.

Hey, it works for me.  I think I’ll keep it.