masochism*

Why do we do it to ourselves? In school we used to call it "term papers" or "research papers" and they were part of why we all thought the teachers were torturing us.

Somewhere along the line I developed Stockholm syndrome, bought some little plastic index-card boxes in different colours, and started to use strategic term paper topics as a way of deepening the dialectic with my teachers (eg, for the ex-Marine who never taught us a single work by a woman in a whole year of advanced-placement English, 20 pages on "the theme of androgyny in Virginia Woolf's Orlando").

But now, years later, here we are, arrived at a point in one's life where the to-do list goes like this:**

1. 3,000-word (I nearly wrote page, there - tells you something) review by Saturday, 500 words already written, ne of the two books not thoroughly read yet - basically, 12 hours to master something completely new, which looks hard yet interesting, personally challenging but, you know. Do-able.

2. MacNeice article (8,000 words) is back with edits I have to go through. Plus I read something last week I really want to work into my argument, so I'll do that too, I think (realistically) by photocopying the relevant pages of the source book and bringing them with me. Mysteriously, there is a bit where the editor has written "Fragment - please finish" and it doesn't look overly familiar. So I guess I must finish that.

3. interview with Ruth Fainlight, much still to do in terms of editing the conversation and adding quotes from poems etc, and maybe asking a few more questions to flesh out specific bits. It'll be great when it's done!

There are little piles of books and papers, like spontaneous eruptions from the coffee table, sideboard, window ledge, everywhere. One pile for this review; another for MacNeice; another for Ruth Fainlight; a pile of papers for the ms; a pile of magazines I have to read; another of books I want to read (poetry); and, under the coffee table, too much to mention but it incudes the pile of nonpoetry books I want to read. There's a novel I can't find, too.

Not only do I not have a study, I don't even have my own desk - and the living room is also my bedroom! There is simply nowhere to put things to get them out of the way or even keep bits of work together nicely. Tell that to the people on the Saturday Guardian magazine.

4. Small matter of sprucing up my manuscript for Salt... speaking of which I must make sure I have the up-to-date version of that file on my laptop before I leave.

Then when I get back to work it's going to be all scheduling and editing and words and liaising with the authors and deadlines and rabbits out of hats and basically my life will go back to being like one big holiday in Newcastle carrying coals with coalmen and busmen.

This little rant is just procrastination. You know it is. I'm about to go back to bed, I mean the sofabed,*** to read a "statement of poetics" and some other things (as well as the book, of course; I bought a very satisfying little notebook the other day for taking notes in).

Do I love it, really?


* there, that'll bring the punters in.

** Actually, it also goes: go to Post Office & post prizes to winners, change up money; pick things up at cleaners; do three loads of laundry; print off insurance policy papers; pack; get new black printer cartridge while out; go to the coffee shop because Skippy, who works there, is going back to Australia forever while I'm away so I must say goodbye to her today!; try and ring my brother; teach Urban Warror's girlfriend to knit; oh and the Tall Blond Rock God is coming over later, possibly with his friend the Boy Who Writes, who will want feedback on the two poems he left with me last time, which I have not yet developed any feedback on. Book a cab for the morning. Watch a DVD of "Swing Time," which finally arrived from LoveFilm; see if I can put LoveFilm membership on hold while I'm away; make list of useful phone numbers (eg, the caretaker) for the babymummy, who is staying here while I'm away (long story). Keys. And dinner. The only thing I think I don't have to do today is mind the baby.

*** Not as luxurious as it sounds. I'm too tired to fold it up.