I'm a procrastinator.
There. I said it. I admit it.
Why get that one important, it's been sitting there for ever needing sorting, thing out when I can do all those not-really-necessary-but-will-fill-that-gap-of-time-when-i-should-be-doing-something-else thing.
You know, like taking the day to paint a shed when I should be booking my car into the garage to investigate that clanging noise. This is because I hate making phone calls. To strangers. I can chat all day to people I know well.
Or hanging a shelf when the words of my novel are still floating in my head rather than lying seductively on a page. I've never hung a shelf before but lo and behold, there's a great big wonky pink one next to my desk complete with sliding books that were quite happily languishing on the floor.
What's it all about then? All this procrastination? Laziness? Boredom? Confidence? Fear?
Fear! Yes let's look at that one. The absolute fear of getting it wrong, of being rejected, of ...cue cliffhanger pause...failure.
Procrastination enables me to get some inane task all bright, shiny and correct (bar the shelf clearly but you know I tried, right?) whilst leaving the seriously challenging ones for another time slot. This is quite a dangerous trait to develop whilst working alone at home all day although interestingly, not one I recognised when I was in my old day job.
The difference? There were others who relied on me. I would struggle the day long so as not to be tardy, ill prepared or lacking when I was in teacher mode...or mum mode, to be honest.
The supportive words of wonderful friends soon become frustrated imperatives as I, once again, doubt my experience and ability.
And there it is. What I'm avoiding is being the me I want to be.
This post is inspired by Post40Bloggers writing prompt no31: I'm avoiding...