Let’s be right, shall we? I should be working.
As I sit here typing this, there is a novel—a literal "labour of love" that is currently feeling more like a labour of "please-god-not-another-sentence"—staring at me from a minimized tab. In another window, there are thousands of photos from three summers ago waiting to be edited. Do I edit them? Do I finish Chapter 14? Do I heck.
Instead, I’m writing this. Because nothing sparks productivity like the desperate urge to avoid the actual task you’re supposed to be doing. Welcome to the glamorous world of a working class north of England procrastinator. It’s not laziness, or so I tell the "imaginary dog" sat next to my chair; it’s curating the vibe.
We’re masters of the "useful" waste of time. I can spend four hours deep-diving into the history of Victorian sewage systems or why seagulls in Blackpool are more aggressive than those in Whitby. It’s all "research," isn't it? You never know when a gritty crime thriller might need a very specific detail about a 19th-century S-bend.
Then there’s the Voice Memo Vortex. I’ve got hundreds of song lyrics tucked away in notebooks, and instead of actually calling up one of my talented musician mates—or even just admitting that AI can probably carry a tune better than I can—I spend my afternoon recording myself.
"I can hit that high note," I tell myself. "I just need a bit of a warm-up and maybe a Lemsip."
Forty-five takes later, I sounds less like a budding rock star and more like a cat that’s had its tail caught in the fridge door. But hey, it beats writing that murder scene.
When the indoors gets too loud with the sound of my own failure, I head to the garden. I sit there, staring at the petunias, trying to convince myself I’m "communing with nature" to find inspiration.
I’m currently writing a scene involving a body in a ditch with its throat cut. Apparently, I think looking at a particularly plump bumblebee on a lavender bush is going to give me the breakthrough I need for a forensic description of a carotid artery.
“Look at that bee, Dylan,” I say to the empty space on the patio where a dog should be. “Does that bee look like it’s seen a grizzly end in a Yorkshire drainage pipe?” The imaginary dog, being a sensible working breed, usually just stares back with judging eyes. He knows I’m just avoiding the word count.
The Moral of the Story?
There isn't one. I’m still not writing the book. The photos are still unedited. My throat is sore from trying to be a tenor, and the imaginary dog thinks my pacing is "rubbish."
But at least the garden looks nice. And if you’re reading this while you’re supposed to be at work or doing the big shop—don't feel bad. We’re in this together. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve just remembered I need to go and see if I can find a YouTube tutorial on how to whistle through a blade of grass. It’s for the book. Honest.
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