Disclaimer: This is a humorous take on procrastination and in no way denotes the mental condition of the author or encourages the state of mind described. It is an exercise to imbue wannabe writers with a sense that they are not alone in their despair to get good work done.
I was used to disappointment. Like all wannabe writers. But unlike all other striving word artists, I expected it. It no longer hurt. Disappointment had become like any other passing feeling. Like hunger or tiredness or wanting to pee, but not as urgent. I jusehe work of a genius mind and the world mourns for the untimely loss of its most brilliant yet undiscovered writer. Tears would well in my eyes at the thought. What a romantic thing to happen. But there was just a small glitch - I needed to die.
Hanging was the most common option, but it wasn’t for me. The man who lived with his fat wife and a thin daughter behind our house had hung himself from a tree on their front yard that was very visible from our backyard. People said he did it out of spite. The wife was a nagger. I had first seen his legs dangling and then looked up to his face with his tongue poking out, not out of spite like the children do on the playground but out of agony I guess. Self-immolation was out of the question. I did not have a gun so that option was shot down. Jumping in front of a bus or train is too melodramatic, too Anna Karenina. Poison is the most attractive option, but then some poisons are slow and painful. I had to do some research first, which wasn’t an interesting thing to do even with the best of subjects. Alcohol poisoning would be great, but again painful and slow. It would be wonderful to die of a drug overdose, but I didn’t have the first clue on how to get drugs of that variety.
A sigh came involuntarily. I’m an expert in sighing. Sometimes my sighs are so long and melancholy, that even stonehearted strangers look at me with pity. There were at present 37 starts in 37 word documents on my laptop in a folder called “my writings” so that it can be easily found after I’m dead. After a few calculations, I realized that it was too little. Even if they used one page per start plus the covers, preface, and dedications, my book wouldn’t be more that 50 pages. That was too little. But then again, with the attention span people had nowadays, it may be perfect. I could, however, make it a round figure of 40 before dying. The decision was made, I will write three more before the final full stop and the beginning of my posthumous unending glory. I got up from my favorite position and after another Oscar worthy sigh, looked around for my laptop among the detritus of my last meal, work papers, takeaway menu and CDs. It was out of charge. After another sigh I decided I could always do it tomorrow.
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Chillibreeze's disclaimer: This is a contributed article and was published on Chillibreeze in October, 2010. The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author(s) and do not reflect the views of Chillibreeze as a company. Chillibreeze has a strict anti-plagiarism policy. Please contact us to report any copyright issues related to this article. The relevance of the facts and figures cited (if any) could change after a period of time.
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—About our writer:
Amritha Dinesh has a PG Diploma in Advertising & Marketing and a BE in Electrical and Electronics Engineering. But her work experience lies in advertising and other communications media. She has worked on projects for industries across the spectrum including hospitality, manufacturing, retail, communications etc. Writing about food, cinema and books are closer to her heart and she spends all her spare time in those pursuits. She also writes fiction and poetry.
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