I am working on a deadline for Boston Magazine. The deadline is this  
Thursday. And, at the moment, that seems manageable. I am (mostly)  
done with the reporting, I have (partially) transcribed the  
interviews, I even (vaguely) know what I'm trying to say. Of course,  
there are other things for me to do as well, smaller-ish things, like  
preparing a presentation about the mechanics and literary devices  
employed by Philip Roth when beginning and ending chapters in The  
Human Stain, re-writing a portion of a chapter to turn into my  
workshop and writing, you know, this blog, but the deadline is the  
major looming thing in my life this week. The deadline rules. And  
this stresses me out.

Now, in my "writing life", I have written several blogs, columns, and  
features about my procrastination issues. As my editors can surely  
attest, they are more than well-documented. They are, perhaps, over-
documented. So this is not another recounting of the various  
techniques I actively and passively employ to facilitate not writing  
(examples I will not be giving: constantly getting up to refill my  
water, organizing my books by author then re-organizing them by  
genre, typing 200 words worth of swear words or catch phrases,  
etc.) . No sir. Totally not that. Instead, I am attempting to examine  
the psychology behind my dangerous and job-threatening need to  
procrastinate. Because if we can get under the hood and take a look--
to use a semi-incompatible cliche--maybe this baby will finally drive  
right. Onward self-examination!

Reason 1: I need the pressure to focus.
Analysis: Because I wait till the last moment to do things, I like to  
leave myself with little to no choice about whether or not I can work  
because--if I know I have time-- I will then rationalize doing  
something else, usually involving Netflix. Pressure leaves me no  
wiggle room, which forces me into a corner, which unleashes my  
creative side, which is something to behold a 4 AM. This excuse may  
have some legs.
What My Dad Would Say: You are lazy and unbecoming of the Alexander  
lineage.
What My Mom Would Say: I'm very proud of you, but I want you to get  
more sleep.

Reason 2: I have an acute fear of failure and/or not knowing what I'm  
doing.
Analysis: Every time I sit down to begin another article/blog/
chapter, I am stricken with the thoughts that I can't do it, I can't  
possibly pull off something again, that I will never write (blank)  
like the last (blank) that I wrote, and that I shouldn't even bother,  
and I should just get an internship at an Art Gallery.
What My Dad Would Say: You're not a closer. And an internship at an  
Art Gallery sounds unpaid.
What My Mom Would Say: You're the best writer ever, but I want you to  
get more sleep.

Reason 3: If someone else is doing something, I need to also be doing  
that thing.
Analysis: Like most people who spend their days locked up with their  
thoughts, I get lonely, even (or especially) when surrounded by  
hippies., which makes me susceptible to--like the title of R&B group  
'Nuttin Nice's song says-- being "down for whateva". Also, people  
with 9-5 jobs don't "think I do anything all day", and always call me  
when they a) have a day off, b) want to go out during the week, c)  
want to do something stupid like go to Europe for 4 months, and can't  
find any takers. Of course, when I say "people with 9-5 jobs", i mean  
my friend Casey.
What My Dad Would Say: If your friends jumped off the Tobin Bridge  
and into a low paying, non-health benefits filled "sea" of self-
doubt, would you? Oh God, don't answer that.
What My Mom Would Say: You're very unique, but I want you to get more  
sleep.

Reason 4: I'm just lazy.
Analysis: Maybe I'm just lazy.
What My Dad Would Say: Yep. You nailed it.
What My Mom Would Say: I agree with your father.

Anyway, I don't have time for this. I have to go stress about my  
deadline while watching a documentary about the rise of R&B on VH1  
Soul. I'm up to the part where they talk to Boyz II Men about Jodeci.  
Feel free to leave your own reasons as to why you think you  
procrastinate in a little something the Internet 2.0 likes to call  
the Comment(z) section and I'll try and update you on how things turn  
out. Let's get this money.

Thank,
You (live)

Boyz II Men

In order to sell your novel, books recommend having a unique "voice"
that separates you from the pack and wins you literary, commercial,
and social-emotional praise. The fact that books also recommend that
you be married to the chairman of Random House and/or Judith Regan is
neither here nor there. But what kind of voice do you want to have? Do
you want your voice to be strong and masculine like Hemingway and that
dude who told Oprah he woke up on an airplane with no teeth or clever
and flirty like Lauren Weisberger or whomever writes Candace
Bushnell's books? If you said neither, books would point out that
you're lying.

Either way, to discover where your voice fits in on the voice
spectrum, please take this short, two question quiz and then feel free
to spend the rest of the week in a semi-concussed state of food coma
remembering the vaguely worded story of Squanto and the Pilgrims
before venturing to the mall at 5 AM on Black Friday to buy
vanilla cookie candles at 40% off. It's totally worth it.

Directions: Read then choose, then read then choose, then learn.

1. Your protagonist finds themselves seated across from their true
love at the Olive Garden. Please describe said scene.

A. The breadsticks were warm and garlic-scented and I was hungry.
First, I was thirsty though and I ordered a whiskey and thought about
bull fighting and other sports. I like sports. A girl was there, I
think.

B. Unless he's being ironic or something, the fact that Jeremy even
considered taking me to an OG (in the burbs!!) is kind of ridic. Olive
Garden's are full of ew people, and ew people cannot appreciate the
fact that I squeezed into this Bottega Veneta Camel Shearling Shrug
and these Jimmy Choo Biker Leather Flat Boots With Rabbit Fur Lining.
I need like eleven Cosmo's.

C. Music. The gentle hum of the synthesized version of "Hey Ya"
reverberated off of the plush, faux-Italian decor. A cold rush came
over me, a suspicious rush of season's past, a remembrance of things
before, before a flood of emotions crept up on me like our vaguely
mustachioed waiter. As Daphne ordered her Endless Pasta Bowl, I
reflected on a time when the song of my love still played, still
reflected towards me like a pool of reflective water. That my heart
still beats is a wonder at all. I ordered the Tour of Italy and became
dour.

D. Don is famous for a lot of things, and most of those things have
something to do with being a naughty, naughty boy.
"Have you been a bad boy," I asked in a whisper, leaning over the
table as the waiter brought the breadsticks.
"You know I have," Don said, his crystal clear blue eyes running up
and down my body. I picked up a breadstick, seductively. Three minutes
later, we were doing it in the men's lavatory.

2. Your character finds themselves at an ATM machine needing money.
How do they handle it?

A. We went to the woman at the bank and requested money. She said to
use the machine. I told her I don't use machines. Walking home, I
tried to think of what she meant.

B. Jeremy made some joke about going "dutch" to dinner tonight, so I
went to the ATM, the one down on Houston and Mott in Nolita by that
cute brunch place Nolita House with the morning margarita's. Going
"dutch" wasn't my problem. My problem was that as I was walking up to
the ATM, I got my Purple Label Grey Metallic "Lizard" Crissy Evening
Sandals stuck in a grate and I slipped, nearly ruining my Adriano
Goldschmied Boyfriend Shorts and that cute top I borrowed from Kristin
(whose new thing, apparently, is not eating). I should have moved to
the Village.

C. Doors. Opening and closing, exposing and then covering up. The
automatic doors at the ATM remind me of the clapping hands of a
babysitter I once had, a small Latina woman with strong, callused
hands. Isn't life often like the closing and opening of doors, be they
automatic, manual or otherwise? Friends become enemies, enemies,
friends and the seasons pass with nay a look in the direction of God.
I've forgotten my ATM card.

D. "Where are we going to do it?" I asked Don, the bad boy actor. I
felt bad. So bad that I kind of felt good.
"I don't care baby, as long as it's hot and in public," Don said. He
was smoking a cigarillo.
"Well," I said, slyly plucking the cigarillo from his mouth and taking
a long pull. "The ATM machine has a camera."
"You're bad," Don said with a mischievous smile.
"I know," I said. "I am bad."

Key:

Mostly A's: Your sparse prose gives the bare minimum of details and
doesn't really let us "inside". You pull it off, you're Hemingway. You
don't, and you're (insert any male high school writer after just
reading Death in the Afternoon by Hemingway). I'm pulling for you.

Mostly B's: Your voice is a little bit sexy and a little bit city. As
long as your protagonist is 23-25 and working in a cool, creative,
city job (fashion, magazines, advertising, corporate accounting, etc)
with some boy trouble, you're pretty much already published.

Mostly C's: Oh, pseudo-literary. The eternal quest to flood the page
with hyper-symbolic prose and internal reflection. When it's good,
it's amazing, when it's bad, it's the worst. A little bit like sushi.

Mostly D's: You are Jackie Collins. And you are naughty.

Ok. Let me know where you stand in the comments. And--if you feel like
your voice wasn't given a shout out-- feel free to drop where exactly
you place yourself, preferably in that Hollywood movie-pitch style,
"Tom Clancy meets E. Annie Proulx at Ken Follett's house". Don't use
that one though, that's mine.

I Wanna Be,
Rich

Calloway