Procrastination part 2

It turns out that procrastination isn`t as much fun when there`s nothing to procrastinate from.

Last night I sent an incredibly long, passionate, heartfelt email to The Agent - apologising for pretending I had finished the book seven or eight times when I hadn`t actually finished the book at all and promising that this time I actually had and I wasn`t lying anymore and I was very, very, very sorry for being the Author Who Cried Finished - and she forgave me. The key difference between men and literary agents, apparently, is that when you send agents long, passionate and heartfelt emails, they actually read them.

So I have an agent again, and I`ve sent her the book, and now there`s nothing to do but wait.

Literally nothing.

I`m under strict instructions - from myself, and there`s no stricter instruction - to take a break, because I`m both physically and mentally totally knackered. I know this, because I have the skin of a prepubescent teenager half my age.

But it turns out that taking a break isn`t actually a lot of fun. All the things I squeezed into my days when I should have been writing - the websites I looked at, the books I sneakily dipped into, the tv shows I watched while I "ate dinner" (ie for the hour before and the hour after I had food in my mouth, which is - let`s be honest - most of the time), the friends I emailed, the incredibly long showers I had - have all lost their appeal now that I`m allowed to do them. I have literally hours and hours and hours of time to myself to do exactly what I want, when I want, how I want, and I don`t know what to do with any of them. It turns out the primary element that made procrastination entertaining was precisely the fact that I was supposed to be doing something else.

It`s been three waking hours without a book to write, and I`m already bored stiff. There`s no point in taking a half hour shower when I`ve actually got that half hour to spend taking a shower. The tv shows - now that I don`t feel guilty for watching them - are, as it turns out, incredibly dull: the frission of naughtiness was the only thing making them watchable. The books have transformed into study guides again: now I read them critically, trying to learn how to be a better writer, instead of reading them so I don`t have to be. The websites that were fascinating and from which I could not drag my eyes 24 hours ago are now totally inane. I`ve even found myself watching the underdog X Factor contestants on YouTube - the ones everyone boo when they walk on and then prove everyone wrong by singing Opera - and crying. Because there`s nothing else to do.

It`s pathetic, frankly. I went out for a drink last night to celebrate with my friends, and I spent the whole time yearning to get home to my book, and then remembering it wasn`t there anymore and sulking. I`m the annoying mother who complains about their kid constantly and then pines as soon as it goes away for the weekend. Worse: I have a two week holiday starting on Friday, and not a bloody thing to do with it but lie in bed and watch America`s Next Top Model. I`m dreading it already.

So I`ve found a new way to procrastinate. Half an hour ago, I distracted myself from looking at pictures of tropical islands on Google by writing a draft synopsis of the next novel. Ten minutes ago, I pretended I was looking on a baby site for my recently pregnated friend, when actually what I was doing was looking for names for new characters. And on my scooter this morning, I told myself that it was okay if I came up with a new plot in the processing of driving, because everyone knows that when you`re driving whatever you think about doesn`t count.

I am - in essence - procrastinating from procrastinating by writing another novel: I`m the procrastination version of a recently overrated Leonardo DiCaprio movie. And you know what? It feels good. And I`d imagine it`ll continue to feel good, up to the point where somebody rings me and tells me I need to write another book sharpish.

At which point - and this is just an educated guess - I suspect those islands in the Caribbean and tv shows and long hot showers are suddenly going to seem a whole lot more appealing.