It’s been an insane month, with even more to come this week. Deadlines, appointments, demands. Everybody wanting something. Inadequate rest, especially on the nights I’m staying over at Mom’s because one of her overnight caregivers is taking a three-week vacation. (Seriously? Who gets three weeks off?) This weekend has literally been the first since June that I haven’t worked at my day job (although I probably should have, because I have two projects due this week that I haven’t begun, in addition to medical appointments, a client appointment, treks to the post office and the bank, Bible study, a friend’s book event, and I think there’s something else I can’t recall right now).

Yesterday was a book event in Old Wethersfield, Connecticut, which in my opinion should be named the Most Bookish Town in Connecticut. These people don’t just browse—they come to buy. I toted the same bins of books to this event that I’d taken to two prior events and hauled home again with barely a book sold. This time, I not only sold out of State v. Claus, but I took orders for four copies (which explains tomorrow’s trek to the post office). The event ended at 3:00 (an excellent ending time in my opinion, since it allows for breaking down my tent and display, loading the car, getting home, and doing it all before it’s time to feed the cats their dinner). But as it turned out, I was so exhausted last evening that instead of swimming, I lounged on the porch with a glass of ice water until I had the energy to move inside and stretch out on the sofa.

No matter, I told myself. Sunday is coming.

I’d been looking forward to today all week. Normally, Sundays involve church in the morning (frequently with a commitment, either ushering, reading Scripture, or leading prayers) and Mom-care in the evening. The in-between hours often involve shopping for something to cook for her, unless I pre-shopped and pre-cooked on Saturday. When I arrive back at home, I face a variety of tasks, from cat meds and snikkies to scooping litter boxes and taking out the trash and recycling in advance of Monday pickup. The result is that my Sunday is rarely an actual day of rest unless you count a stolen nap in the afternoon.

Not this week, though. Since the overnight caregiver is on her aforementioned vacation, my sister is staying with Mom tonight, which means she’s taking care of Mom’s dinner, which means I don’t have to. Plus, I had no pre-scheduled church obligations.

All of which meant that a long, obligation-free day stretched out before me, the kind I couldn’t recall happening in far too long.

Even the weather cooperated. We’ve had a stretch of beautiful days filled with sunshine. The low humidity and mild temperatures are more typical of September than July, but I love them.

So I told myself it would be the perfect day to sit on the porch and work on the sixth—and final (fingers crossed) draft of my new book, now officially entitled The Claus Heir.

I slept late. Skipped church. Fed the cats. Made a pot of tea. Ate breakfast on the porch. Listened to the birds chirping. Read the mindless parts of the paper. Tried to shake off the tension that was invading this otherwise perfect day, the sense of I must that hung over me like a London fog.

I decided that I needed to prep for this editing session. I have notes from a dear friend who teaches creative writing and who went through the entire manuscript and gave me lengthy, insightful comments as well as line edits. Her child, who has worked with a literary magazine, provided comments on the first chapter. There should have been nothing stopping me.

Instead, I loaded the dishwasher. Took photos of the cats on the porch. Went into my office to ask Claude for an outline of the manuscript so I could see more easily where I might still have gaps or redundancies. Printed my friend’s comments and the emails forwarding her child’s comments. Logged yesterday’s sales. Prepared and filed my second-quarter sales tax return and remitted the amount of sales tax collected between April 1 and June 30, which was $2.00USD. (Connecticut residents: you’re welcome.) Updated my cover photos on my author page and Tuxedo Cat Press’s page on Facebook to show a “save the date” photo for the launch. Edited the photo to make the background a slightly darker green and re-uploaded it. Followed up about a possible book event in September. Considered whether to order another batch of invitations for the launch party since I gave out more yesterday than I expected to. Decided against it until I hear back about the September event. Told Claude to finish the outline after my free options reset at 7:30 p.m. Fixed lunch. Debated what I can do this week for dinner that won’t require me to go food shopping. Contemplated (briefly) unloading the dishwasher, putting away the dishes, and reloading it with everything that’s been accumulating in the sink since I turned it on this morning. Chose instead to write this blog post.

You see, the trick to good procrastination is doing things that actually need to be done. The sales tax return would have been due on Thursday, so completing it today was a good thing. Ditto with following up about the September event, running the dishwasher, logging the sales numbers, and posting the “save the date” photo. Even this post qualifies since I’ve been sinfully remiss in keeping up over the past several months.

Plenty of other options present themselves. I could pull weeds from between the bricks in the front walk, a task I have put off all summer. I could cut back the spent stalks of the hostas, and I could pull out invasive plants that threaten to choke the ones I want to keep. Inside, I could start cleaning the house in advance of a friend’s arrival ten day hence. I still need to deal with the trash and litter boxes. Soon, all my feline family members will demand that I open another can of pungent food and dish it out.

All worthy and legitimate ways to postpone the terrifying moment when I open the folder labeled “Draft #6” and begin a review, sentence by sentence, word by word, in a never-ending effort to make this one perfect, to face falling short even as I struggle nonetheless to find that moment, that sensation, that will communicate the book’s deepest truths.

It’s now after 5:00 on an exquisite summer afternoon. If I want to swim, I’ll need to get ready shortly, because adult swim starts at 5:30 p.m. so that for one blissful half-hour, I can swim laps in a child-free pool. Then again, I could put on sneakers and go for a walk. Or I could forego all the exercise—so good for me—and take a delicious, decadent nap.

Or I could summon my courage, open the document, and begin work on Draft #6.