Procrastination Makes it Happen?

As an aspiring writer I have a common problem so many of us artsy-types face: PROCRASTINATION. It's the demon lurking under my bed as I try to drift off to sleep, the words of my best selling novel materialize in my mind, my computer brain spell-checking my floating work until it lulls me to subconscious blackness. It's the poem that so beautifully forms as I take a walk in the morning, each line more genius than the last; the poem that might even make a hit song if only I can make it home to get it onto a piece of paper. The ideas that come to me when I'm reading the droll local newspaper with it's sophomoric reporting could possibly win me a Pulitzer. If I die before I have a chance to get this stuff down- boy what a loss for all mankind! That's what we all think; us procrastinators.

Lousy loafs the lot of us! Well, enough is enough I say. I'm making a cyber-rific effort to put an end to all this wasted thought process that comes to a head only to die in shattered pieces inside my brain. I will force myself to write uncannily witty little blurbs that force the masses to think, to laugh , to cry, to change their very thinking as they know it. There will be no more excuses as to why I don't have a bog. As far as that goes, turns out I already had one and hadn't used it in nearly a year. The only thing I'd posted was a pissy little rant about the lack of a recipe I couldn't obtain from P.B.S. So, anger appears to have some affect on the procrastinating artist.

Having made my first move toward greatness and, if nothing else, personal satisfaction, I feel like an enormous weight has been lifted. Now I have to hope I can keep this thing from getting too out of hand, what with all the millions of hits and what-not.