Procrastination: The Silent Killer
And the importance of psychoanalyzing yourself.
I’m so hyped about my upcoming novel, Blade and Lyre, I can barely contain myself.
My friends and family must be absolutely fed up with me gushing about my FMC, Trisha. And roll their eyes when I walk them through my swoon-worthy (at least in my own mind!) scene with Trisha and Blainor.
It’s coming! Only a few chapters until I’ll send the manuscript to my editor, and then I can start those other projects itching at the back of my skull.
So… Why is it then that I’m dragging my feet?
I have two bigger changes, but mostly what remains is tiny. All I need is to review the last few chapters, wield my scalpel ruthlessly, and let it go. Once the manuscript is off my back, I have time for all the other necessary steps, such as the ARC call, purchasing ISBNs, and setting up my author Goodreads account (which I learned I cannot do before I have those aforementioned ISBNs).
I’ve even done some kitchen psychology on myself.
A therapy session with myself. Should I be afraid?
For as long as I can recall, I’ve wanted to write a book. Logically, my procrastination doesn’t make sense. Especially since I’ve already written three or four books, possibly even more.
Maybe that’s the reason?
I’ve never published (unless fanfiction counts, and no, I’m not going to tell you what fanfic and under what pen name). I’m a bit scared of getting so close to something I’ve always dreamed about.
No, I’m terrified. Because that means—
So, I’m distracting myself with everything else, lying to myself that I’m working on my book. Creating Instagram reels, moodboards, and choosing songs for melancholic playlists.
And yes, all of this is important, but I’m getting a bit too distracted.
O woe me, the captive of social media.
The truth: I’m allowing myself to get distracted because I’m scared. I’m scared to finish my book. Since that opens up a can of worms, such as:
What if nobody reads it? Or worse, what if they do, but nobody likes it? What if all the yearning and ache between Trisha and Blainor won’t carry through, and it’s really just in my mind? And, well… You get the gist. On and on it goes, until I start to doubt even my own dream.
Reality check: everything is alright.
Theatrics aside, I know what everyone does. Like all good authors, or anyone who wants to achieve anything in their life, one must work toward their goals. Sit down, grind their teeth, and work through it. Even more importantly, I must have faith in my own story.
So, that’s what I did. I took a deep breath and took a stab at one of the biggest remaining changes in my manuscript, finishing it.
Now all I have left to do is review the ending.
I’m so excited to share Trisha’s journey to Blainor’s court in Eichlandt, to show the cultures and customs braided into their world. To let others join Trisha in her search for answers about her past and feel the quiet ache she hides behind her sharp tongue.
So, here is one of those scenes that I “had” to rewrite. It features Trisha and Blainor’s seneschal, Senneth. A creature of tradition, Senneth believes the Warlord’s Bard should be a local and doesn’t approve of her. Too bad for him, Trisha doesn’t care about his opinion.
Excerpt from Blade and Lyre
Trisha inhaled, squaring her shoulders. Her footfalls echoed in the silent hall. Rich tapestries whispered tales of vanished histories. She slowed by one, depicting a dark fortress over the green hill: Moorhafen. Beneath the castle walls, armored warriors clashed with spears and swords, crimson pooling in the ground. Far beyond, pale forms approached, like a wintry storm. The draft skimmed her neck, and the lanterns’ glow thinned, shadows rushing to steal the space from the retreating light. She shivered.
At the entrance to the Fir Hall, Trisha stopped. Men in bright tunics and women in long gowns and silken veils bent their heads together, while servants in their brown liveries swerved between long tables and clusters of people. Her knees lost their strength. The scent of zesty herbs, baked breads, and hops suffused the smoky air, the candles in chandeliers casting their glow.
People nearest to the door fell silent, their mouths ajar, as though they’d seen a ghost. Among them stood Blainor’s seneschal, Senneth.
The flaxen-haired man approached, hands clasped behind his back. “How delightful, Bard an Tilia. I thought we’d never see you again.”
She resisted the impulse to wince. “I trust you’re well, Master Usmer?”
“That,” the aging seneschal said, “depends on who asks.” He straightened, regarding her over his sharp-pointed nose. “Should you desire to abandon your duty again, I’d appreciate a warning, Mistress an Tilia.” He paused. “If it isn’t too much to ask.”
She gave him a measured nod. “We shall see, Master Usmer.”
His nostrils narrowed. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” he said. “A word of advice—not that you’d take it—but should you ever wish to be even half of Lynjef’s worth, I’d show some humility.”
Her fingers, which had been tracing the flowers carved in her lyre, stilled. “Do cling to your opinion, Master Usmer. Fools often do so.”
What do you do when you notice yourself procrastinating? Do you have any tips or tools? I’d love to learn and see if I could apply them in my own life.
Don’t be shy, leave a comment if you are so inclined. I promise not to bite.
Thank you for reading!