I love to write, I do, it's true
But there's so much else I need to do
With children and housework my schedule's tight
I don't have the time to just sit down and write
Hours are long, concentration is tough
Excuses are easy; self-discipline's rough
"I don't feel well, I'm far too tired
I cannot work when uninspired
The dishes need doing; the ironing too
This pen is the wrong shade of blue
The day's too early; now it's too late
I cannot work with Windows 8
My chair's uncomfy, my desk's not right
But Breaking Bad is on tonight...
Before I start I need to plan
As much plot detail as I can
I need to research, plan, rewrite
Procrastination just feels right
And what is this life if without care
We can't sit in our underwear
And drink a beer and watch TV?"
A novel's so much work, you see
Ten thousand hours we might spend
On just one work, and at the end
Who knows if it will be a fright?
Who knows if we will get it right?
Now the sun is out, the sky is blue
There's so much else that we could do
Than sit inside and type and stare
(Though sometimes in our underwear)
At half-filled pages and dead end plots
And character arcs tied up in knots
It's so much work, this daily grind
Procrastination suits me fine
