Oh, I’ll start to write. I’ll open the file, scroll down to where I left off. Usually, I’ll even manage to make some forward progress, but soon enough, I’ll find myself staring off into the middle distance, thinking about how much I need a new desk. Not just any desk. A designer-perfect, sit-stand desk.
And wouldn’t that make my writing better? Wouldn’t it make me more productive? I’d be such an awesome writer if I only had a sit-stand desk with memory settings, and a reclaimed-wood desktop, and maybe a treadmill so I could still get my 10,000 steps in without having to go outside for a walk.
Next thing you know, I’m online looking for a local reclaimed-wood furniture-maker who does custom work, and I’m pricing out ergonomic desk accessories, which is ridiculous, because I haven’t actually sold a book yet. I might never sell a book. I certainly won’t sell a book if I’m spending my writing time researching furniture. And I can’t afford to buy a spiffy new desk for my spiffy new career, if I don’t have a spiffy new career, because I never wrote anything, because I was too busy thinking about how my office should look.
And it’s not just furniture. I daydream about assembling a gorgeous wardrobe for writing conferences, and about how nice it would be to have a tiny house in the backyard just for writing, and about casually mentioning “my agent” in conversation (note: I don’t have an agent.) There are always so many wonderful things to think about besides the work I’m supposed to be doing.
I know better. I do. I (almost) always come back to the page, back to the characters I adore and the story I’m excited to tell. But, man oh man, I could tell it so much better with a gorgeous, adjustable desk, don’t you think?