pace/place

I bought legal pads in bulk. Nine hundred sheets. Each sheet held the promise of scribbles which held the promise of genius ideas which held the promise of words to express those ideas which would be published into a book which would make me millions or at least book me a few readings at your local Barnes & Noble.

But it's not that I exactly write. In fact, I tend to do the exact opposite of writing, which includes all activities that are not writing. Reading, pacing, reading while pacing, baking banana bread that I will binge eat at 3 o'clock in the morning, falling into debt from following a fleeting (and pricey) passion, and pacing. Did I already mention pacing? Writers pace. Writers pace a lot.

So I could write. I have the sheets for it. And I should write. I have the need for it. Something as simple as inking up a piece of paper saves me from insanity while simultaneously diving into it. Funny how that happens, right? I don't want to write. I really really really don't want to write. I want to feel compelled to do almost anything else. Can I get a paycheck for pacing? "Anything else" has no interest in me, though. Anything else is a pair of two left shoes. Anything else leaves me at the door and drives away. Writing follows me in. Writing walks into my room and sneaks into my sheets. Writing stays the night. Writing won't wake up until I give in and cook it breakfast. Writing wants to feast with me. When will I sit down and learn how to eat?