Welcome to Side Quest, a new series of posts I’ll share on my blog from time to time that give you a peek into the weird ‘what if’ scenarios and playful thought experiments I use to keep my imagination fired up when I’m taking a break from my latest novel.This is the very first one, and I hope it gives your own creative brain a fun little jolt!

It finally happened. The glowing amulet pulsed in your palm, the talking squirrel delivered his cryptic prophecy, or maybe the birthmark on your arm started looking suspiciously like a map to the Lost City of Gorgonzar.

Congratulations. You’re the Chosen One. An ancient evil is stirring, a galactic empire is threatening the Outer Rim, and you—yes, you, the person who considers finding matching socks a major victory—are the only one who can stop it.

There’s just one problem. You have a history final on Tuesday, your favorite show just dropped a new season, and that pile of laundry in the corner is one t-shirt away from achieving sentience. Destiny is calling, but your phone is buzzing with notifications that feel just a little more urgent.

Don’t panic. This isn’t a guide on how to save the world. This is a guide on how to put it off… responsibly. Welcome to the art of Strategic Destiny-Delaying.

Step 1: Re-evaluate your priorities with the tier system of impending doom.

Sure, the Shadow Overlord Xylos is planning to blot out the sun. That sounds bad. But will he give you a detention that goes on your permanent record if you don’t finish your book report on Ethan Frome? No. Your teacher, Mrs. Davison, will.

Create a simple chart. In one column, list your epic quests (“Vanquish the Serpent King,” “Find the Seven Shards of Light”). In the other, list your real-life tasks (“Walk the dog,” “Finish algebra homework”). The task that will result in immediate, tangible consequences (i.e., parental grounding or a failing grade) wins. The fate of the universe has been around for billions of years; it can wait until after dinner.

Step 2: Disguise your training as household chores.

No one can accuse you of slacking off if you’re being productive. You just have to reframe it.

• Are you sweeping the kitchen floor? No, you are practicing staff combat with the Legendary Broom of Tidiness.
• Just folding clothes? Think again. You’re actually inscribing protective sigils into the very fabric of your armor to ensure it withstands the rigors of the coming quest (to the movies).
• Are you practicing your heroic “I’m here to save you!” entrance in the bathroom mirror? That’s just good personal hygiene and confidence-building.

Step 3: Conduct extensive “lore research.”

Your quest will require immense knowledge of past heroes, battle tactics, and plot twists. How does one acquire this knowledge? By watching hours of television, of course.

That eight-season fantasy epic isn’t a distraction; it’s a historical document. You’re studying the effectiveness of plot armor, analyzing the classic “unlikely friendship” trope, and taking notes on what not to do when facing a dragon. When your parents ask what you’re doing, simply look at them with grave importance and say, “I’m studying the archives.”

Step 4: Engage in strategic fellowship vetting.

You can’t face the Dark Lord alone. You’ll need a ragtag team of loyal companions. But choosing them is a delicate process that requires careful observation in a casual setting.

Are you going to get fudge with your best friend? No. You are assessing their suitability for the “comic relief with a heart of gold” role. Does their choice of toppings show a bold, decisive nature? Are they willing to share, proving their loyalty? This isn’t just hanging out; it’s team-building.

So go on, Chosen One. The world will still be there waiting to be saved when you’re ready. Probably. In the meantime, that new season isn’t going to watch itself.