Procrastination is an insidious beastie, and can even take the form of hard work on the wrong project. Lately I find my mind filled with the proposing and writing of non-fiction books and articles, work for which experience has prepared me and for which I would certainly get paid. But the only writing I should be thinking about right now is fiction, an area where still I'm an uncomfortable, unpaid fledgling.
My excuse, of course, is that any writing will get my name out there, so I might as well make a few bucks at what I know how to do. It doesn't wash, though. That major literary agent or publisher of novels won't care how many books I've written on the fate of polar bears or the watermarks in Mozart manuscripts if I can't prove that I have fiction chops.
So why must I constantly fight to keep focused on mastering fiction, this thing I claim to love? Well, 'cause it's freakin' scary, is why!
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