A Thought While at the Pot

by Tom Swift

I don’t know if this is the case for other writers but I wonder if one reason we are notorious procrastinators is that when we are writing we are, by definition, in direct contact with our primary materials — the things that make us us — our core — our soul, if you want to go there — and that to pull a bucket from that precise well is bring up not just beauty but also ugly. As a writer you feel most alive while engaged in the fundamental act, when you are in touch with that part of yourself, but then you stop to go to the bathroom or whatever and you immediately become aware of the guilt and shame and maybe a dozen other uncomfortable parts down there, down in all of us, that you have, however unwittingly, summoned to ground level. And that, of course, makes you feel a little lousy, or at least not altogether good, about the very thing you just did, the writing, the very thing you must do. And so you need to do it and yet you do not want to do it, too.