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Ugh.
These minor but pleasurable events (and many others like them, a serious procrastinator
will never run out of ideas) are, officially, called displacement activity. A friend of
mine told me that. She is a clinical psychologist. Even though she knows the technical
term she is prone to it herself. She is also the one who told me about
‘telescoping’ which is when you think that something that happened three years
ago happened only six months ago. I get this as well; I just thought I lived in dog years
until she disabused me of the notion.
Anyway, displacement activity is when you manage to get all the hateful, horrible,
picky tasks done and dusted. Tasks that you would normally turn your nose up at suddenly
take on the appeal of rolling on soft, sweet grass with George Clooney (or whoever; fill
in your own ideal co-roller). I once cleared out the cellar (a particularly unattractive
place) because (and I cannot lie: it was because and not despite) I had something to write
and my deadline was breathing hot breath down my neck. But did I panic? No. I just plunged
into the cellar and spent four hours clearing out muck and rubbish.
I was so pleased with myself. I was Queen of Displacement Activity. I crowned myself
with cobwebs and wrapped myself in grime.
I believe that every one of us has indulged in a little procrastination from time to
time. Who hasn’t lingered over Coronation Street rather than go out on a rainy night?
Who hasn’t stayed in the pub a bit longer rather than go back to work? Some people,
though, are just more organised than others. Another friend of mine has now spent almost
six weeks doing nothing but work on a project when it isn’t even due until the end of
May. What? Not wait until two weeks before? Madness! And there are people who are simply
imbued with a strong work ethic (now where did I put mine?)(that’s right, I never had
one) and just get things done in a very matter-of-fact way. As if there were no other
ittybitty things they could think of to do. As if there were no cups of tea to drink and
newspapers to read, and drawers to hunt through aimlessly but with enthusiasm.
This week, then, I have had something to start and finish because the deadline is in
two days time. I finally looked at what I had to do when I had five days left. I hastily
put that aside when I felt panic rising ("what is it I have to do again?!" and
"maybe I can’t get this done"). The next day I moved towards it and moved
away, towards, away. It became like one of those dances in a Jane Austen novel. I went and
got myself a new travelcard. I picked up some photographs I’d had developed. I
cleaned the bedrooms. The thing was, the pressure was not yet quite great enough. I work
best when I have to sit in front of it for hours at a time and not move and actually
complete it. I work best when I have to work hard in a rush rather than in stages.
Planning and cunning time management work best for some people. I prefer the thrill of
last-minute pressure, the clock ticking. But I do see that it’s perhaps not the most
positive way to produce work.
So yesterday I started it, worked all day. Today, the same and I have finished the
thing with no love lost between us. Which means that tomorrow I can loaf about practicing
my displacement activities. As if I am not already a mistress of procrastination.
Sam
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