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… That’s Because I’d Rather Write

Oh, that?

That’s because I’d rather write.

Overdue library books. Entire shopping lists in three categories: kinds of carbs, kinds of wine, and kinds of chocolate. Dust bunnies under every bed.

That’s because I’d rather write.

Thirsty flowerbeds choked by weeds. White trash bags piled like bodies in the garage because I keep forgetting to take them to the curb on Tuesdays. The dog hamster-wheel-whining for a walk. Half-scribbled notes everywhere about plot points. A fridge that I’m not sure I want to open because, dear God what is that smell?

All because I’d rather write.

Closet clutter I should probably organize. Except I'm writing.

Grass so long the city is about to fine us. Bleary-eyed coffee-making in the morning. Bleary-eyed coffee-making at night. Cat litter so turd-packed it could be the surface of a meteor.

Yep. Writing.
Dirty car in need of an oil change? Check.

Crumb-laden keyboard because I take all my meals with Word open? Check.

Piles and piles of laundry in the basement? Check.

Still writing? Check check.

Neighbors have seen me in my jammies at 4:00 because I can’t be bothered to change clothes when I’m on a tear. They’ve seen me 24 hours later in the exact same attire, only now my hair is super greasy and I’m starting to smell. Because I’m writing.

The same CDs have been on rotation in my car for a year because a.) I’m not fancy and I don’t have satellite radio, and b.) every time I think, Gosh, I should totally bring some CDs from the house to the car, it’s totally blocked out in the next 3.2 seconds by a different thought. About writing.

If there was a 12-step program for writing, I would probably be encouraged to join it. But in the end, I wouldn’t. Because that bulb might need changing, and I might just have tuned out what you said while thinking about a plot point, but baby, if this is a disease, I do not want to be cured.

via larawrites.com