FEATURES Out With A Whimper Procrastination is tough, exhausting work Kevin Welsh, OP Features Editor Well, people, this is it. This issue is my swan song—the last time I shall grace the pages of The Other Press in the capacity of Features Editor, a position I have held for just over one calendar year. I pause to let the gravity of the situation sink in. I know... I’m sad too. The original plan was to do my best to go out with a bang. One last thoughtfully conceived, thoroughly researched, and painstakingly written literary delight; a gourmet roasting, simmering, and basting of delicious wit, delectable insights, and sweet wordiness to say goodbye with. The idea was to cement my name in the annals of Other Press history; to ensure that “Kevin Welsh” went hand in hand with whomever else is considered a great Other Press alumni. I don’t really know of any, but then again I rarely go to editorial meetings and almost never participate in fundraising, professional development, or teambuilding events—I barely know who writes for the paper now. Ahem... whatever, that’s not the point. The point is that instead of ascending Mount Great Literature, caressing greatness, and sharing it with my read- ers and co-workers I have once again stumbled and fallen face first into a soppy wet, muddy puddle of mediocrity— splattering muck all over this publication in the process. I have writer’s block; and it sucks. I pray my former Print Futures instructors aren’t reading this. So instead of going out with a bang I go out with a whimper. For this, I feel shame. I have let down my editor, my fellow contributors, and all my fans (all both of them: Lisa, Catherine, I’m sorry). When faced with writer’s block people try and help me out with advice, telling me to write about what I know. To this, I say two things. First: Duh! I write and edit for a liv- ing; I already &now that. Second: I’ve already written about what I know more than a few times over the past year. There’s only so many features a guy can write about cult movies or the social, political, and cultural significance of minor professional sports team names. Finally, having dis- covered the only things I know anything about are cult films and sports branding, I become depressed—which doesn’t help writer’s block at all. Thanks for the advice, people, but no thanks. Besides, I’m a professional—when it comes to writer’s block I think I know what I’m doing. Here’s what I do. First, I realize I have nothing to write about for the upcoming issue. No problem, I tell myself, I am a professional—I’m sharp and motivated. Sometime between now and my deadline, inspiration shall surely descend from the heavens and club me over, the head giv- ing me a brain swell of...stuff...interesting, timely stuff with which I shall use to write, inform, and entertain—ha! So just relax and let it happen. Second, my deadline comes and I realize I still have nothing to write about. I rationalize this—surely, this isn’t my fault. After all, I am the Features Editor, and, as such, have complete carte blanche when it comes to writing. No guidelines, no topics that need to be addressed. I can write about whatever I want. That’s too open ended; there are too many possibilities. How is one man expected to look at everything and choose only one thing? I can’t—there’s sim- ply too much everything to consider. I need more time. I call my editor and arrange an extension. Then I go out with my friends and drink beer, secure in the knowledge that alcohol will show me the way. Pass the chicken wings. Third, I wake up with a burbly stomach, slight headache, a mouth that tastes like a small, furry rodent crawled in and died, and no idea for my article. No prob- lem, I tell myself, Supreme-Exalted-Managing-Editor-In- Chief-Guy Miley didn’t say when today the article is due. Therefore, I have all day. In an hour or so I'll read the paper, go to wikipedia.org, do some research, bang that mofo off, and have the whole afternoon to do whatever the hell I want to do. So just relax. Fourth, I procrastinate—or so it would seem. What I’m actually doing is shinking. That’s right, ’m using my sbinking to think about my article. I know I lost most of you, it’s complicated stuff, and so I'll spell it out for you. It may look like ’'m going for coffee, reading the newspaper, play- ing Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas (where are those last two horseshoes?), or downloading Internet porn—but I’m not. Well, actually, I am, but I’m not really paying attention. It’s not about the coffee, horseshoes, or porn—those are just things I do so I have something to do when I “ink. Do you get it? It’s what my professional readiness instructor called incubation time—time spent contemplating the project at hand (he told us to charge for incubation time, so it must be a vital step to the writing process). So, you see, ’m not procrastinating. Vm simply employing a vehicle of doing opfeatures@gmail.com something so that my shinking can be incubated in my brain so that I can write my article so that all of you can read it and rejoice. Simple, airtight logic. Fifth, I realize I haven’t been thinking at all, and whatev- er thinking I had been thinking has now incubated its way into the “That’s Too Stupid To Write About Bin.” So, in a way, my thinking has incubated itself into procrastination. It’s still not my fault, though—I can never remember that I’m bad at thinking. Sixth, I panic. This is the really productive stage. There’s nothing like panic, coupled with the impending doom of missing an extended deadline, to wonderfully focus a writer on the task at hand: writing. So, I panic, ask my mom, girlfriend, or whoever else is around what I should write about, scoff at their suggestion, then adopt their suggestion as my own and run with it. Sometimes I run straight into the painfully hard brick wall of “That Sucks,” but sometimes I run into the giving pillowy soft- ness of “That’s rad,” which is what I’ve done here. Another masterpiece, I decree. Whatever, I’ve gone over my word count. There are simply too many people to thank for making my time at The Other Press so enjoyable, and I don’t want to leave anybody out, so I’m not going to thank anybody because it simply wouldn’t be fair. ’'m out of here.