* Pew! Pew! Pew! * at the Stacione de Procrastinacione

An abbreviated summary of what I’ve done since realising in 2006 that my purpose in life is to write original science fiction and fantasy novels: Not written the novels. Punched a bully. Did a super-embarrassing fashion show (for the gees). Started and stopped Judo. Survived primary school. Discovered YouTube. Got into and out of Linkin Park, anime, Warhammer 40’000, shitty thriller fiction and Magic: The Gathering. Knee surgery. Written terrible plays, scripts and fan-fiction. Attended a gazillion physio appointments. Performed in bands. Had my wisdom teeth removed. More knee surgery. Felt offended when a teacher advised against verbosity. Got into jazz fusion, solo piano, orchestral soundtracks and prog-rock. Also choral and acapella music. Survived high school. Got into experimental electro. Had my one and only sip of beer. Participated in truly inane political firefights. Begun the world-building process for the stories properly. Rehearsed with bands. Been in lots and lots of pain. Fallen in love. Recorded with bands. Wasted my whole life on Facebook. Started and stopped little writing circles, then started them again. Lost interest in almost all social occasions. Written a 90-page world-building document for the novels. Donated more of my bookshelf. Sucked at videogames. Participated in truly inane political firefights online. Checked emails a million times a day. Wasted my whole life on Tumblr. Taken drum lessons. Ran a creative arts collective for literally one event. Cried at the clouds a million times a day. Filled up dozens of notebooks with ideas, plans and rough drafts of the novels. Given up on videogames. Dumped recycling at the depot. Dumped groceries in the trolley. Got dumped, twice. Checked notifications a million times a day. Not regretted having skipped my Matric dance – ever. Written memoirs. Got sick about once a year. Cut my hair, a lot. Got nowhere with toxic people. Started university. Lost my patience with mainstream news. Endured campus evangelicals. Chick Corea on repeat. Finally came to understand why people hate the New Atheists. Alan Silvestri soundtracks on repeat. Experienced the preliminary effects of accelerated aging in lectures that run, paradoxically, in slow-mo. Scolded someone I love. After they forgave me, spent a year and a half learning to forgive myself. Begged people not to give me presents. Made 40-minute WhatsApp voice notes. Given away ungodly amounts of money to beggars. Posted selfies on Instagram. Experienced cognitive decay in tedious seminar groups in which I’m the only student participating. Given up on people who’ve given up on me. Eaten oats for breakfast every single day. Downloaded music. Stood in the queue with my trolley. Given up on green tea. Long walks in the forest. Composed for bands. Hated everything. Photographed my cat. Plini, CHON and Owane on repeat. Fretted about the prospects of a career in academia. Hiromi Uehara on repeat. Read cryptic philosophers. Written poetry, badly. Got skeefed hard for asking cashiers if they’re doing okay. Downloaded thousands of books. Talked about writing the novels. Akala, B. Dolan, Enter Shikari and Rage Against the Machine on repeat. Lost my virginity. Rejected the concept of virginity. Re-read David Mitchell novels. Washed the dishes. Snarky Puppy on repeat. Just one more Zadie Smith interview on YouTube. Ignored my extended family. Chopped ginger and lemon for my tea. Fought back tears when parking attendants called me “My Master”. Responded to email bullying from a boss. Read other people’s manuscripts. Eaten overpriced “vegan options” at supposedly affordable cafés. Capitulated to the humxn resources officer. Got into podcasts. Checked in on all my depressed friends a million times a day. Declined invitations to evening events. Rediscovered how to love everything. The umpteenth physio appointment. Smiled listening to Johann Hari. Found Button Poetry increasingly stale on YouTube. Drowned in self-loathing for not writing the novels. Experienced quasi-religious feelings to every Noam Chomsky speech on YouTube. Cooked for three days in advance. Zadie Smith’s husband’s name is Nick! Read academic papers so boring you slip into another dimension. Gone the extra mile for students, who reciprocated by forgetting to do their homework yet again. Got some really high grades. Talked to romantic partners til the early hours of the morning, then until til the late hours of the following day. Swept the floor of my car. Beamed at George Monbiot. Joined social justice organisations. Written in my journal. Tried to make sense of angry white boy gamers yelling about feminists on YouTube. Had a spider bite removed. Felt nauseous at parties. Showered as quickly as possible. Burst into tears to musical cast recordings. Got a TESOL certificate. Showered reeeeally slooooowlyyyyyy. Worked part- and full-time in bookstores. Lots and lots more pain. Hallucinated characters from the novels. Laundry. Fretted about the prospects of a career as a high school educator. Worshipped Laurie Penny. Shnuggled my cat. Promoted bands. Worked out before sunrise. Tried super hard to protect people from suffering, and failed. Long, heartbreaking talks with homeless people. Blogged about racism. Planned the novels. Ranted about the meaning of life with my mom. At last given up on these goddamn bands. Gooshed cockroaches. Disavowed the system. Found out I’d developed chronic pain syndrome. Discovered my queerness. Read tons of self-help stuff. Admonished the masses. Found my home in posthumxn revolutionary social ecology. Blocked toxic people, period. Avoided everyone at parties I never wanted to attend. PAIN. Read nonprofit radical journalism. Realised that being an introvert with chronic pain is bad for one’s flakiness rating. Grown mildly disillusioned with motivational TED Talks on YouTube, but not fully. Read tons about writing styles. Written and run homemade tabletop role-playing games for the worlds of the novels. Taught drum lessons, Afrikaans, English, Xhosa, sociology, history, philosophy. Wasted my whole life on Twitter. Meditated on the carpet. Downloaded, laughed myself hoarse on, and deleted Tinder. Planned the novels again. Survived an annual vomit fest three years in a row. Revived a universal compassion at the core of my worldview. Planned my whole life over and over again. Read just one more Ian McEwan novel. Redid my CV again. Written essays. Gawked at neo-Nazis on YouTube. Tidied my room. Packed tomorrow’s lunch of carrots and chickpeas. Composed an artistic family tree consisting of solely the authors, styles, aesthetics and topics which situate me in my flow state. Discovered humility. Drawn up a budget that doesn’t actually matter because I earn so little anyway. Cringed at liberals. Regretted all these silly carbohydrates. Submitted to the dogs at my students’ houses smearing their drool and roaring libido all over my pants. Mutated into a raging intersectional vegan anarchist. Dissolved into suicidal malaise. Sought amnesty from reality in my friends’ spare bedrooms. Decided that the novels needed to be planned just one more time. Carved into the cosmos: I JUST WANNA WRITE, GODDAMNIT. Raised an existential middle-finger to becoming an academic, activist, editor, publisher, social media personality, philosopher, model, musician, illustrator, psychotherapist, athlete, entrepreneur, husband, parent, cadaver. Fantasised about my childless, perpetually single adulthood as an unpublished author living the proto-cyberpunk nightmare in a small apartment with creaky floors and bathroom doors which literally do nothing. Planned the novels. Got into yoga, Muay Thai, swimming, cycling, calisthenics. Balanced my lifestyle. Helped a lot of people. Learned a ton. Re-read my old writing and realised I’d improved, a lot. Realised I’d got way better at not over-committing to social justice, bands, friends, teaching, studying, retail, collectives, ‘socialising’, family, social media, emails. Made a lists of things I’ve done to avoid writing the novels. Looked myself in the eyes. Refused to give up. Rolled up my sleeves. Threw my f**ks in the de-atomiser bin. Blasted off.