DEAR QUEEN PROCRAS TINA

Dear Queen Procras Tina,

I’m sending this letter to formally resign from my position as your protégé and Senior Procrastination Specialist. I know it’s customary to give two weeks’ notice, but I’m making my exit immediately. This job is sucking the life out of me, and I must go. My writing career has suffered under your tutelage. My last day is today.

Starting now, I am no longer your servant, friend, confidant, or whatever else you want me to be. I don’t remember when I took this job, but for over three years I’ve bent to your every whim. Sure, here and there, I managed to complete some small writing projects: a few short stories, a couple poems. But I let you coax me away from my writing, again and again. I was happy to join you on whatever quest you could come up with. I helped reorganize our office, tidy the kids’ closets, and even clean the garage. Just last month, I removed several plants to make room for your new garden. But within my own garden of creativity, I’ve allowed the weeds to grow so tall, they’re climbing the walls now.

In the quiet hours of the morning, when I glance for a moment or two at my notebooks, or think quietly about writing something, you remind me that the New York Times puzzles only take a few minutes. When I’m done, it’s time to walk the dog, then get dressed and ready for my day. At lunch, I sometimes remember something we need from the store, so I open the app and add it to the online shopping cart. By the time lunch is over, I’ve updated the grocery list and checked our regular online retailers.

In the evenings, how many hours have we spent together scrolling Instagram, Facebook, and watching live videos on Substack? Together we’ve made it to the Diamond League multiple times in Duolingo, even if it meant extending our 1,176-day streak in the final minutes, just before midnight.

Ping – Oh what’s that? A notification from the real estate app: a house in our neighborhood was just listed for sale. Should we go see it?

Ping – a notification from the chat app. What’s going on at work?

Ping – a notification from the kids’ sports app. When's practice again?

Ping – that item on my Amazon list is now on sale!

Ping – another notification, constantly pulling me away with more and more distractions.

Together, with technology, you and I have worked hard to build walls around my motivation, enclosing my creative garden so it can’t get any light. The walls are tall and thick, and covered in weeds and vines.

But today, I found a weak spot.

And I brought my sledgehammer.

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

The walls are coming down now. Crashing onto your royal flowers of delay and regret. I hear you complaining. You’re yelling at me that I’m making a mess – that we built this terrible trap together and I shouldn’t leave you. But your voice is starting to get on my nerves.

I give myself permission to ignore you. Today, tomorrow, and forever.

Yes, I’m scared. In fact, I’m terrified. But I know that I’m not alone. This is normal. All writers feel this way at some time or another. The fear of feeling like a faker, an imposter–it’s real.

But, I said it when I finally finished my messy, awful first draft: I am a writer. I know it in my bones. I know I have what it takes. It’s as frightening as a horror novel, because I know I will need to pull that three-year-old draft off the shelf, and face what’s inside. I know you’ll whisper in my ear that I abandoned it for a reason. But I’m going to lean into it and let myself feel that awkwardness. I know it will only be temporary.

When I was writing regularly, my words were like a new creature being born, coming to life in front of me. The more I wrote, the more it breathed. I remember how amazing it felt to create something from nothing. I want to do it again.

I want to laugh when I write something so funny that it surprises me. I want to cringe when my characters make terrible choices. And, I want to help them overcome their fears. I want to feel the joy of creating characters in a world where anything can happen. I’m ready.

Queen Procras Tina, I doubt I’ll ever shake you completely. You’ll show up again and again, your royal head high, offering unsolicited advice, with your nose in the air. I can already hear you telling me that I’ll never be good enough. But your voice feels softer now, a little farther away.

Yes, Tina, I hear you.

No, I don’t care what you have to say.

This is my life, my art, my writing–and today, your reign is over.

With zero regret,

Your Former Muse