Today I am meant to be finishing a travel piece for a NZ magazine and crafting elegant, directional copy for a friend's website.
Instead, I find myself in a procrastination loop so intense, I have cleaned the loo, de-fluffed four sweaters and plucked my eyebrows into near oblivion. And drunk 30 pints of green tea. And spent large chunks of time looking out the window and thinking about Mindless Stuff, such as do I need to buy another bottle of flax-seed oil and do I really want to schelp downtown to watch the mortal enemy (England) win the grand slam?
This is not what I'm meant to be doing: I should be writing like my fingers are on fire, dammit. My hope is that if I sit very still and clear my jumbled thoughts, the Muse might return from wherever the bejesus she has gone to. And that my editor, and my friend, will be wearing their cloaks of forgiveness come Monday...
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