Writers procrastinate.  Of course we do.  I’d like to think of it as part of the plotting or pre-writing process.  Sometimes it is.

And sometimes it’s just good, old-fashioned procrastination.

I can waste time in Tumblr and Pinterest with the best of them.  However, there’s a special place I get lost, only to surface hours later with a sheaf of notes in my hand and no clue how I managed to stay up so late.  I did it last night.

I have a thing for history.  Not just any history, specifically Colonial and Edwardian America, European history, the history of Britain, and the history of the Picts (because I’m insane for wanting to know the unknowable).  I ran across a link for a documentary while listening to a song that was stuck in my head.

That’s all it took.

I surfaced from my gluttony after 2 a.m., cringed, and clicked to the next episode.  Crazy, right?  But I have a small pile of notes on Medieval England, Neolithic Scotland, a lost continent in the North Sea, the Romans’ efforts (and failure) to conquer Scotland, and the role of the Church in governing birth, marriage, and death to add to a growing collection.  And I’m just getting started.  Part of that sheaf is a list of documentaries I want to watch. Regrets?  I have none.  I was filling the well of writerly things (or adding to the compost pile if you prefer).

Procrastination, yes, but also story seeds by the dozen, a short list of characters, and settings both beautiful and bold.  I was also clever enough to write down sources and bibliography information to use as reference.

Procrastination with a purpose, then.  A few well-spent hours feeding my love of learning and history and legend and story.  It was worth cursing my alarm clock and dragging my sorry arse out of bed this morning.

I do have one regret.  My body is shutting down in a quest for sleep, and I won’t be able to start on that list of documentaries tonight.