I rented an office space in downtown Tacoma, for the entire month of June, so I can finally have some incentive to get up bright and early, make the commute, and sit my butt down in a chair and finally get to work on my first novel.
I figured, “Hey, if you don’t wanna watch $450 of your own money go down the drain, you better utilize that office space, dude!” So that’s what I signed myself up for this summer. That and Environmental Science 160.
I’m the type of person who hates deadlines. I’m also the type who needs them in order to get anything done—an expert procrastinator, one might call me. I prefer the term “Clutch.” I like to think this attitude comes from my athletic background (I was a basketball and tennis star in high school, sorry not sorry about the humble brag).
But now I’m beginning to think that I’m just a plain ole’ lazybutt. Yeah, I really think that’s it.
Here’s why I think that. My office lease began on the 1st. I didn’t move in until today. There are 30 days in June, and I paid $450 for the month. I didn’t use the space for the first 2 days of the month, and though I’ve been here for more than half of the day today, it’s mostly spent moving stuff in and chatting with Dom, the hippy dude at the front desk.
Considering I’m paying for the office space specifically to write my novel, and I’ve barely even begun it, that means I’m out $45. Not good.
It’s not all bad, though, I think. The lost 3 days have created a sense of urgency in me. Scare me into action, one could call it.
After finally getting moved in, getting connected to the wifi, and taking some pictures of the setup for my wife, I sat down to read the assigned chapter for my ANTH 204 class.
So, there’s this guy called Otzi the Iceman, who was murdered 5,300 years ago, on a mountaintop somewhere in the Alps. He died from a flint arrow to the back. Some archaeologists believe he had been in a fight 3 days earlier and was on the run. His body (including tattoos), clothing, copper ax, and other gear were preserved relatively well because he was covered by glacial ice.
Anyway, I found myself wondering if Otzi had had a wife, maybe kids, too. Maybe he was on his way back home to them when he was murdered. He probably didn’t expect to die when he did. No one ever does, unless they choose to do it themselves.
He was only about 40. From what we know, there’s no written word back in Otzi’s time. We only know his story because he was 10,000 feet above sea level, and a freakin glacier just happened to be his final resting place.
It’s 9:57 P.M. right now, and I’m still at the office. I’m happy to report that I’m 348 words into the first draft of my first novel. I was gonna wait until tomorrow morning before starting it, but what if I died on the way and never began the one thing I’ve been working toward since summer of last year?
No way I was taking that chance. Anyway, it’s getting hella late. I really gotta go before my wife begins to think I’ve been murdered and left in a ditch somewhere in downtown Tacoma.