I love to clean. It’s my favorite method of procrastination. Partly because it’s a ‘valid’ and ‘necessary’ thing to do. People rarely accuse you of being unproductive if you’ve just vacuumed your floors or mopped. They praise you and it’s like, instant gratification. Plus, when you’re done, you get the joy of no longer staring at the clutter that’s been driving you nuts.
I clean when I feel out of control. As if by refolding my laundry in a new method I’ll be able to just as easily refold and organize my life.
I sweep and mop and dust and push myself because I know if I do those things then I’ll be ‘producing results’ on something, even if it’s not my story.
I know that if my Main protag is being a stick in the mud and only talking ABOUT the heroine instead of doing stuff with her, I can go and clean my fridge, post some before and after pictures and get that shot of joy that I’m looking forward.
But in the end, you run out of ways to rearrange, you’ve thrown away all the things you can and you still need to get those two fools into a relationship if the story is ever going to get finished.
But man, no one cleans and procrastinates like a writer avoiding dealing with an uncooperative story.