It’s like I am physically incapable of not procrastinating.
I signed up for this thing in May. Remember May? That month when I was living at my parents’ place in Ohio with no car and nothing to do besides work, which took at most 45 hours a week, so theoretically I had plenty of time to both come up with and carry out an idea for the Sketchbook Project?
Now, I know I only signed up that early so I could sign my friend up as a birthday present so our books would always be together in Brooklyn even though she is now in Minnesota and I have yet to make myself visit her because the plane ticket is ridiculously expensive and I hate the cold. I know I didn’t have any intention of doing anything with my book until I moved back to NYC.
But there was a part of me that actually believed I might pick it up and start working on it by October. There was a real part of me that seriously thought I might have it finished by the end of the year. There was a microscopic section of my soul that truly supported the idea that I may not end up throwing something together in the last week, finishing it the day before it was to be postmarked, and stealing away from work to get it to the post office at the final deadline.
That part was an idiot. Of course I waited till the very last minute. It annoys me because in my mind, I feel like it could have been so much better; I could have done work I was proud of; I could have created something I actually wanted other human beings to view. But instead, I hastily scribbled stuff on paper and sent it away hoping no one ever goes to the Brooklyn Art Library.
I would ask what is wrong with me, but I’m sure you don’t know. Or at least, I don’t want you to know–I’ve been trying to figure it out for 28 years and 7 months (my first 13 days of life were pretty filled up with typical baby things like crying and eating), so if you could figure it out in 5 minutes, that would make me even more disappointed in myself. And you don’t want that, right?