Stalling

I'm supposed to be working on a write-up of this little Yucatan-inspired restaurant I visited in an attempt to get back on the freelancing wagon. Am I doing it? Shit, I don't even know where to begin.

I don't know what's wrong with me, but it seems I can never bring myself to write the things I'm supposed to be working on until the eleventh hour, when it's do or die and I'm desperate and tired and have no choice other than to just toss aside my distractions and get to it. I guess there's a bit of a thrill in racing against the clock, scrambling to get your shit together, never knowing if you're going to be able to pull it off until the last t is crossed, the last sentence punctuated. But there's also a whole helluva lot of anxiety, a fistful of self-doubt, and a pinch of sheer helplessness to round out the flavor.

I hate that this is my process, but at the same time I've never been effective writing any other way. I don't know if this makes me a masochist, an adrenaline junkie, or my own worst enemy. Probably a little bit of all three.

If anyone has some good suggestions on how to overcome this, and also tips on how to let loose and stop laboring over every fucking word, you're more than welcome to provide comments.

It's getting hard to remember, but there once was a time when writing used to be fun and relaxing for me. I just want to get back to that.