But on the other hand, I work even better not under pressure. Saying "I work well under pressure" is like saying "I become strong and charged with adrenaline when my life is threatened". I mean, great, but wouldn't you rather be sipping iced tea?
What's the point of this, you would ask if you weren't afraid of me, because I am big and tough and strong like the Giant Swede. The point is, yesterday was meant to be an all-day writing day. And instead of waking up early and getting right into the groove, I fucked around all day. I went out for a while, I blew off laundry, I watched a bunch of TV, I played the Sims, and before I knew it, it was 5:00PM. The whole day, pissed away. I decided to just write it off, which I did with some reluctance and great self-loathing, because the weekends are vital time if I'm ever going to finish my stupid novel.
But then, having taken all the pressure off myself to produce anything, I ended up opening the file just to do some edits, and damned if I didn't write twelve pages before bedtime. And not twelve shitty pages, either, but twelve pretty decent pages that moved the story along, brought in a new character, and solved a plot problem that had been nagging me for a couple of weeks. All after I had expected nothing of myself that day.
The lesson: laziness is fun.