My Poison by Christine Fletcher
My poison is indolence. Plain, cussed laziness. The idea of having nothing to do and nowhere to be, reading novels in the patch of sun coming through my window…ah, heaven. The problem with being a writer, though, is that the work is never done. Stagger to the end of the first draft, and revisions loom. Hand in the final copyedits, and other projects are already clamoring like baby birds: Me next, me, me, me!
Go away, I think. I’m taking a break. I deserve it. But then comes guilt gnawing with yellow rat teeth: You should be writing. Because indolence too easily becomes procrastination. Simple physics: a body at rest tends to stay at rest. A writer who doesn’t write pretty soon isn’t a writer.
So I ration my sloth. After every ninety minutes or so of work, I award myself fifteen to read online advice columns. Or play this incredibly inane kid’s matching game that came with my laptop. Or look up Battlestar Galactica trivia, because I still don’t get that whole thing with Starbuck at the end. And then I go back to writing.
With a brand-new copy of Poison in my hot little hands, though, I’m pretty sure fifteen minutes is going to stretch into thirty. Or more. Once I’m lost in Bridget’s beautiful funny flirty world, especially when the rain stops and sun comes streaming in…well, for once work’s just gonna take a back seat to heaven.
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