Today is yesterday’s tomorrow. For procrastinators like me, deadlines are both a motivator and a curse. Rather than seeing the period of time before the deadline as a gift, we see only the deadline. How close can we get to that magic hour when the task is due before starting to work?

Perfectionism is thought to be one cause of procrastination. Of course, the work usually suffers for procrastinating. How can it be perfectionism if the work suffers? Only when the anxiety of doing something is greater than the anxiety of doing it imperfectly, the procrastinator moves forward. 

I procrastinate religiously. The only thing I can think of that always (almost) gets done on time is dinner. The old nursery rhyme “Monday’s wash day, Tuesday’s ironing, Wednesday’s mending…” helps me to stay on task on Monday at least. But by then, the laundry basket may be overflowing.

A new theory holds that procrastination may be linked to ADHD and anxiety disorder. In my life, anxiety is mutually engaged with procrastination. The fear of not finishing a task on time causes anxiety, which causes procrastination which leads to imperfection. Over a lifetime this can lead to self-hatred. 

I have a fair amount of that condition associated with my messy office, garage, basement and coat closet. Some of those messes can be attributed to my mate but my office is all mine. Now that my office is a grandchild’s room, I only see the laden desktop when the light is on as she wakes from her nap. 

So I write from a comfy couch in the living room. Files are assembled in piles on the coffee table, or in the dining room if things are really out of control. I like to think I know where everything is and I mostly do. But that kind of attention clutters an already cluttered mind. Better to call it Attention Clutter Disorder. 

Mail is another source of clutter. I once thought email would eliminate that, but now I outpace Hillary Clinton in the amount of undeleted email in my personal account. Can somebody please write a program to read my mind in order to delete the ones I don’t need? AI to the rescue?

This condition didn’t start recently of course. I see its origins in elementary school. Last-minute science projects that kept my parents up late painting rings of Saturn the night before the science fair while I slept, anxiously. 

Sixty-some years later, is there any hope for me and my ilk? A lot of writers I know suffer similarly. The ones who rise early and write for a set amount of time seem to fare the best in terms of productivity. There have been times in my life when I could manage that. But age has brought a new freedom to pursue my interests which seem to multiply along with my age.

My garden has had to tend itself this year. It did almost as well without my attention. My memoir has been all but forgotten since a family member moved into my writing cottage. I am determined to memorize my lines in a performance next month whose date is fixed. Business licenses will be renewed on time. My attendance at town board meetings is non-negotiable. In fact, I realized recently that what helps me to thrive is structure and accountability. 

My granddaughter is one thing in my life that doesn’t suffer my procrastination. She has my full attention at least two days a week. If only I would give my desk that kind of attention.