Fiction Club Vol 1.

procrastinate

verb: procrastinate

Definition: To postpone a task due to habit or distraction.

Gates Definition: ~ Fill this in later ~

The beetle's antenna twitch back and forth like tiny doweling rods. It crawls around trying to find its way out of the plastic container I've trapped it in like the gigantic asshole I am.

I'm out in the back garden shovelling dirt from the flower patches into an old coffee jar I found in the kitchen. I fill it with soil until it's about a quarter of the way full and then add some leaves and twigs to make a more authentic looking habitat for the little guy. I've also poked some holes in the lid to give him air. I may be keeping a living thing in captivity but I'm not a monster.

Having finished off the makeshift terrarium I guide my new beetle buddy into it from the plastic container with little difficulty. It must have been getting bored in there. Do insects have the capacity to be bored? What must it be like to never be bored? To not require any stimulus other than 'I'm hungry' or 'Oh shit, that's a praying mantis.'

Before I was sitting here in the garden asking the real questions, I was at my desk in my room. When I got back from school I had a peanut butter sandwich for dinner and got right to work. I fished a blank notebook from the drawer, wielded my pen like a sword and swished it down on the paper, ready to dance with words.

Half an hour later the tango had yet to begin. The band wasn't playing and I had arthritis of the rhythm. The pen remained frozen to the spot creating a puddle of ink. A black hole of creativity that sucked me in further with every hint of an idea abandoned.

I dropped the pen and leaned on the desk, pressing my hands to either temple like I was trying to squeeze the ideas out of my head, letting them ooze out of my nose and down on to the paper in some coherent form. All I got was a headache.

That was about an hour and a half ago.

So now I'm out in the garden. I was meaning to make a proper home for my beetle buddy anyway.

Is this what they call 'writer's block'? If so then it sucks. All I want to do is write a stupid story for stupid Margo at the stupid club but my stupid brain won't let me. It generates stupid thoughts and ideas all day long but when I actually need it, blank, nothing.

When I was a kid the ideas would come and I'd just write them down. No big deal. Didn't matter if the ideas were good or bad. Every idea is good when you're that age. You've got no filter, no self-criticism or sense of shame. But at some point between then and now I developed this little bureaucrat sitting behind a desk in my head, red-stamping every idea and tossing it aside for the shredder. What the hell happened?

You grew up, my brain tells me, And growing up is the worst thing a writer can do.

"What you doing?" says the child's voice from behind me. I turn around and see his head peeking up from the other side of the fence.

Indrid is my neighbour's son. He's about eight years old, wears a plain blue t-shirt and has short, auburn coloured hair. His pale skinny arms hang over the top of the fence, one of his hands lightly clasping a stick. He stares over the fence at me with little expression. This is usually how he greets me when I'm out in the garden. No 'hello'. Just an immediate question.

I'm not big on kids as a rule, but I have time for Indrid. He's quiet and inquisitive and capable of understanding things above his age level. That and I don't think he's all that well physically so I try to be nice to him as much as I can.

"Procrastinating," I say, returning to my work.

"Pocasti-what?" he says, as deadpan as before.

"You don't know what that means?"