THE PROCRASTINATOR

Once there was a woman who thought she had stories to tell. "It's all about the stories," she said. And then she set down to write and joined a group. The self-designated leader of the group poked a non-bony finger and scoffed and she ceased to write.

Later, much later she thought she still should write so she gathered her wits--what few she had--and her self confidence and started again. Too bad she didn't know the rules. "I'm too wordy," she said, because she was.

Again she started but said, "I'll just please myself and write my own stories." And she did. She joined a group. Her stories pleased only herself and she was happy. If one of her children were in the stories sometimes the stories pleased them but she wrote only for herself. "To understand myself," she said. Sometimes the group laughed--not often but enough for encouragement. Sometimes they gasped--okay, only small gasps, but even small gasps are satisfying.

She longed to be a better writer. Smarter. To know the rules. And so she continued to say, "Yes, I'll be part of the BYU Writer's and Illustrators for Young Readers workshop," and then she did nothing. Wrote nothing.

And so it goes. Will this be the first time she will go unprepared? She knows more now, enough to know she's not going to be a great writer but does that give her the right to slack? Does that give her the right to not try to be at least adequate? Or maybe better? Surely by death she will be better. Does she have the right to not try? And die--way, way in the future--better?

Her honesty makes her wonder.