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I’m Working Late ’Cause I’m a Writer With a Procrastination Problem
In the pantheon of misleading lifestyles and professional roles, none shines quite as fake as the life of a writer à la Carrie Bradshaw. Look at her, clacking away at her keyboard in a New York apartment — that somehow affords panoramic views — on a columnist’s salary, sipping on a Cosmo rather than bathing herself in the elixir of the gods, the real fuel that would get us writers go from staring at a blank page in despair to typing our way to the Best Seller list: coffee.
Tell me you didn’t want to be a writer because of her romanticised lifestyle that made us believe that typing words on a keyboard could get us out of debt, become rich and famous, all without ever leaving our home — or wearing anything else other than fancy pajamas. I’ll wait.
If you’ve never dreamed of sleepless nights writing about the one that got away knowing that your personal life is worth sharing with the world if it pays your rent, then prepare to have your illusions spectacularly shattered; this is not the romantic story you should expect from me, besides, not all heroes hop around in a big, tulle skirt on a Monday morning.
It all starts with the best intentions: wake up, make coffee, write. But the path from A to B (to C) is often not as linear as one might expect and it’s littered with delightful…
