nPractice makes a great excuse for procrastination
Write What You Know
Jeff sat in the Starbucks writing poems. He arrived every morning at ten, ordered a tall dark roast in a grande cup and plain bagel (of which he ate half), filled the dark roast with half-n-half and nursed it for the next two hours during which he wrote four poems, a half hour per poem. A ritual inspired by his creative writing teacher Susan, who had self-published a book of poems that sold three hundred copies on Amazon.
“Write every day,” Susan said. “Never fail. Make it your routine. Always complete one poem, two poems are better and better yet four. It doesn’t matter if they’re awful. You can’t fix what you didn’t write. Revisit and revise the next day.”
Jeff was good at the writing part, revising not so much. He loved every poem the way it was, as any parent would love a child. And besides, after two hours his attention would drift to the girl at the nearby table.
Jeff was good at the writing part, revising not so much. He loved every poem the way it was, as any parent would love a child. And besides, after two hours his attention would drift to the girl at the nearby table. There was always a girl at a nearby table. Some came every day, like the petite strawberry blonde with the apple face and almond eyes who spent her lunch hour with a latte and protein box, or the runner with the tight abs and sports bra who stopped by to buy a bottled water while listening to her iPhone.
So many women, so many possibilities, so many introductions to make. Or he could write more poems. About women. So every day at noon he would order another dark roast, decaf this time, finish his bagel and appease the muse of erotica with four more poems.
Whoever said poets get laid was full of shit.
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