Lovecraftian Horrors, Babies and Other Excuses

I’m up against several deadlines right now and it feels like for every goal I accomplish, two more get piled on or pushed back.  Life is a not-so-gentle reminder of man’s utter uselessness at planning for the future.  We writers are mere blips in the vast chaos of churning, gibbering procrastination.  And the internet pulses before me like a festering, blind-beast-with-a-thousand-young, tempting the unwary into distraction.

I make lists.  I’m good at making lists.   But the problem is that the lists grow and grow until they take on a life of their own.  They sit there on my desk like some cyclopean horror daring me to look – if I do, if I glimpse the abyss of unfinished things, then I shall surely go mad.

A screaming six-week old doesn’t make it much easier, let me tell you.


One Response to “Lovecraftian Horrors, Babies and Other Excuses”

  1. Screaming six-week olds don’t make anything easier.

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