I am by no means an expert on getting started. In fact, if you were to ask either of my college roommates, they’d tell you that I was an expert at putting off getting started.

I remember one semester when Beverly and I were sharing a little two-story apartment that was right off campus near the English Department. One Friday afternoon, I told Bev that I had a paper to write and that the deadline was Monday. I’d already done the research, so now I “only” needed to compose my essay.

This was in the Dark Ages—no home computers, no internet, no Google Docs—so papers had to be typed on a typewriter, carried across campus, and handed directly to our professors. The apartment’s proximity to the English professor’s office meant that I could bike the paper over in less than ten minutes. Since his office hours were until 5:00 p.m., I could leave my apartment Monday at 4:50 at the latest and still meet my deadline. To be on the safe side, I gave myself only until 4:45.

Beverly, also an English major, was unimpressed with my ability to calculate time. “Turn it in when you get out of class at noon,” she advised. But that would mean that I’d have to finish it by 10:00 a.m. when class started. Ugh.

On Friday, I was unconcerned about the paper—after all, I had all weekend. Fridays are for hanging out with friends and celebrating the end of the week—I’d work on Saturday and Sunday. No problem.

On Saturday morning I felt proud of myself as I dutifully gathered up all the articles and books I’d collected and spread them across our kitchenette table. I sat down, stared at all this material, and pondered where I would start. How in the world do I organize all these details? Suddenly, my nose twitched. “What’s that smell?” I thought, and sniffed again. “Our refrigerator has something nasty in it! I can’t possibly work with that horrible odor lingering in here!”

Bev came in to find me pulling out tub after tub of oddly-colored, formerly-edible material. In my best game-show-host voice I said, “And now, for the ten THOUSAND dollar prize, can you guess. What it used. To be?” I waved my hand dramatically over the container and slowly opened the lid to reveal green stuff with fuzzy pink lumps growing on it. That shade of pink…I don’t think I have ever seen that exact color at any other time in my life.

Bev looked at it and shrieked, “Gross!” Her head jerked involuntarily and she held her nose. Then curiosity overcame her, so she looked again and took her best guess. “Green beans? No, maybe spinach. Hey, do we ever buy peas? Could be peas…” I peered into the dish, but I couldn’t tell, either. “Pitch it,” we agreed in unison, and I tossed it, container and all, into the trash.

By the time I’d finished, the fridge was basically empty. I had even removed shelves that we hadn’t pulled out since moving into that apartment, and I’d found a shriveled slice of American cheese left from the previous renter. Or maybe his predecessor–who knows? But the fridge was sparkling, the kitchen smelled fresh, and I could now sit down and write in peace. Bev picked up the Shakespeare she was studying, and all was quiet.

Too quiet. Who could think with all that quiet going on? Tapping my pencil for a few minutes, I began to notice that the place needed to be dusted, vacuumed, and polished. And the windows needed washing. And the bathroom grout needed scrubbing. And, hey! How about the oven?

I told myself all the lies we hide behind: “I can’t get my thoughts in order until my surroundings are in order.” “I have plenty of time.” “I’m thinking about it. It may look as if I’m riding my bike for fun, but really, I’m writing it in my mind.” And perhaps the most seductive lie of all, “It’s OK. I work best under pressure.”

Over the course of two days, I had cleaned everything there was to clean in our apartment and had even washed my car. It was now Sunday evening; not a single word was committed to paper. For reasons I can in no way recall, at one point I found myself on the carpeted stairs, on my belly, making swimming motions with both arms as I descended. Beverly, who had admittedly benefitted by my burst of fastidious energy, looked up from Act III and in the most exasperated voice I’d ever heard her use, exhorted, “Stacey! Just. Write. The PAPER!!!”

I wish I could say that I changed my ways after that incident. I wish I could say that now I am disciplined and when I set out to do a thing, I just jump in and do it.

But it doesn’t work that way. At least, it doesn’t for me. Getting started is hard. Every. Time.

Maybe the problem was that even after all that procrastinating, I still met my deadline and made a decent grade on the paper. If I had experienced a colossal failure, perhaps I’d have changed my ways. Then again, probably not.

Could it have been a better piece if I had been more orderly? Certainly! Would I have experienced less stress if I had sat down and worked methodically, beginning on Friday? Absolutely! But, hey, I would never have found that petrified cheese, and I wouldn’t be sitting here thirty years later laughing about the time I body surfed down the stairs.

I’m curious, Dear Reader, what crazy things you have done to put off starting a project and how it finally turned out for you. Community members can hop over to our Discussion Page and share their experiences. When you post, be sure to comment on a few others’ posts to give them feedback. Not a member yet? We’d love to have you! Keep the conversation going by visiting our Community Engagement page!

Until next time,