I should be writing right now.
But, I’m not.
I’ve read an interview with Liam Neeson, tonight. And read a bit in a book called [amazon_link id=”0892816716″ target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]Christ the Yogi[/amazon_link], which I’ve been working my way through, slowly. And checked e-mail, most of which I’ve already read. And, of course, there’s comments on Facebook and Flickr to distract me for a minute.
I have laundry to fold and there are dishes in the machine that need to be taken out and put away.
There are more dishes in the sink to replace them.
There’s that letter I should write to the prisoner. My prisoner, I suppose. It’s writing, in a way, but it’s not writing writing, the way I should be writing. Oh, and easy to rationalize, since, of course, I’m doing charitable or spiritual work by writing to him about how it is in prison. Who he is and why he’s there don’t matter. At least, not for my letter, or my excuse. It’d be a good thing to do, a charitable thing, to write that letter. To just finish it, really, since I’ve already started it.
And I need to eat, too. Really, I do need to do that, sometime, tonight. Granted I could stand to lose some weight, but, still I do need to eat something, eventually, tonight.
But, I should be writing.
I should be telling a story. Maybe a true story or maybe some fictional adventure of an imaginary hero. But, stories are what I want to tell, so I should be writing one.
Maybe the story of the carney I took photos of Saturday night. I could fill in the blanks he left me, like his name and how he ended up in that life. I imagine it would be a good story, based only a little in reality. But, for me, those are the best kind. I don’t suspect that he meant to start in that life. I imagine it’s a hard life and grinds a man down after a bit. Always traveling, never in one spot too long. All the hotel rooms about the same. Maybe even just sleeping on one of the trucks that hauls the rides from town to town, from state to state.
But, I’m not writing. not really.
I’m avoiding the work. I’m hiding from it.
It’s hard work, creating the world on paper. Reinventing it, over and over and over again.
So, instead, I’m going to go take care of the dishes. And the laundry. And get something to eat.
And, just that easy, I’ve told you a story, haven’t I?
So, I guess I’ve just written.
