I have a problem with time.

There simply isn’t enough of it, and what little there is moves far too fast.

I work, and I write. It should be fairly simple. I don’t have kids, the dogs aren’t terribly demanding, and Scrape is obliging when it comes to helping with the housework–but I still can’t find enough hours in the day. I tell myself I’ll take care of a bill, call a friend, maybe even post on this blog, and before I can get to it, two weeks have gone by and the bill is overdue, the friend is miffed, and the blog has become boring.

I’m a visual person, so I write lists, scrawl appointments on my calendar, and hang sticky notes around my work area until it looks like I’m embroiled in some weird patchwork art project. But nothing seems to work. I get sucked into the interminable vortex of the internet, or absorbed in a book, or involved in a writing project, and the little things fall by the wayside. The big things tend to pile up in front of me, eventually blocking my way and making progress impossible until I spend a long day making up for lost time, checking off all the undone items on the lists that litter my desk.

Tomorrow, I swear, is going to be one of those days. I’m going to tackle the unopened mail, call my parents, e-mail my friends, file the tilting stack of paperwork on top of the file cabinet, and obey my sticky notes, one by one, until the wall is empty and my conscience is clear.

So if you haven’t heard from me for a while, or if I owe you money, I’ll take care of it tomorrow.

Really. I will.