While working away at a book draft, I formed a new theory about why writing is so riddled by procrastination. What I’m doing as I sit down to write is trying to communicate with myself from the future, who is currently holding the finished book in his hands and trying to save his past self all the trouble.

“How’s it looking?!?” I shout up the timeline.

“It’s looking great!”  He shouts back. “It has cute squirrel fuzzmonkingy ambluitions and lots of ploghome esparities!” 

“WHAT?!?” I scream. “SPEAK UP, I CAN BARELY HEAR YOU!!”

“The spatuling motif really hits the spog!”  He reports. “Well done! Put in some flabber jokes and smile about ogilvies!”

“WHAT ARE YOU ON ABOUT? LOUDER, YOU IDIOT!!”

“spxflllr squeef bllllop…” comes the reply and I know the connection has been lost, and there’s no point in trying to write anything now. I’ll just have to wait until the line is clear again