I’ve been procrastinating because I don’t want to dive into my next round of edits before I hear back from Beta Reader #2.
I’ve found lots of creative ways to stall – one of which is trying to compile all of my random notes into some organized, contained place. No matter how hard I try to keep all of my ideas in one place, I’m ALWAYS making notes on random pieces of paper, in multiple notebooks, on pages torn out from magazines, on the cardboard coasters that float around our house, in my journal, etc. So, I’m trying to put all those little scraps of paper (or full pages) into hanging files. Then, I can easily grab the file that corresponds to any given project and shuffle through all the randomness. 
I told myself I’d try to write an essay (like for a literary magazine), but apparently I lied.
I rearranged my office, but you already knew that.
I carried all my favorite memoirs outside to study how/where the stories start – trying to decide if my prologue should disappear. (I’ve read that publishers [and many readers] don’t like prologues…)
Then I started thinking that maybe my story should be fiction instead of memoir, so I’ve been wandering around thinking about what that would look like and not paying attention to what I’m doing. (Like walking Pearl – and not remembering if she’s peed or not.)
In my self-imposed break from writing, I’ve also started outlining a whole new story – fiction – about a cheating husband. (At least it better be fiction!) The idea came to me in the middle of a massage – clever plot twists and all. Maybe if my writing ever makes me any money, I can write off my massages when I do my taxes…
I even went grocery shopping and cleaned my house. Desperate times call for desperate measures.