When I first started this blog, I did not allow myself to plan.

I knew that if I stopped to plan, I would psyche myself out. Instead, I just started writing.

There was something soothing about the fact that each thing I posted here was meant to be a discrete piece of writing, on one topic, with a beginning, middle, and end. I didn’t have to figure out how they all fit together.

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For years — literally years! — I wrote each blog post on the day it was to be published.

I wanted to “get ahead” and have more posts in the queue, but I just didn’t quite have the capacity.

The downside to this approach was that I was always in emergency mode. That gets stressful.

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The other day, I passed by a bus shelter on Monroe Drive in midtown Atlanta where a woman was determinedly sweeping the sidewalk with a broom.

She seemed to be an unhoused person, judging by the large amount of stuff stacked on the bench within the shelter. This was her home, her turf, and she was defending it from the onslaught of grime and debris from the road.

Even though I’m in a more privileged position in life, I can relate to this woman’s desire to do the tidying that she could. I understand her instinct to maintain life’s little routines in the face of chaos.

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My first experience with procrastination and the terrible feelings it brings was in fourth grade. I was supposed to do a report on Leonardo da Vinci.

I don’t remember whether it was that night or the next morning when I suddenly remembered that I had this project to do, and panicked.

My mom let me stay home to complete the project with the understanding that this would be the last and only time I’d be allowed to do that.

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I am not sure if I slept much last night.

I remember looking at the clock a few times and being surprised at what it said. I don't know why I was surprised.

I dreamed a lot. But the last dream wasn't really a dream. It was a work session. It laid out for me, in nerdy, procedural detail, a project that I was supposed to do, and exactly how I was supposed to do it.

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