I should be writing but I am reading instead.

The characters in my stories, which I should be writing about, are calling to me from the low and high mountains; from frosty blue lakes that still carry no names; from green forests wild with ivy and roses; from hidden castles with closed doors that should be opened by the characters in my stories. 

My loyal and most beloved characters are so loyal and never leave me but they are saying in earnest voices, ‘Anne, Anne, Anne,… when will you come! We need our jobs in the stories. Remember… you did say that you would give us all kinds of work to do and we are waiting for your fingers to finish up what you’ve started.’ 

And I say to them, ‘OK, just wait a little longer, my dears.

I should be writing but instead I am reading the latest novel of long ago and once upon a time and once under the great white moon.

It is such a good book, the book that I’m reading, and I’m almost finished and besides… reading help the writer to grow.

Upon my return home… I should be fetching my mail from the mailbox but instead I go straight to my apartment and smother my winning kitty with thousands of delightful kisses.

In the evening… I should be playing with my cat and bringing him fun times but instead… I am watching the silly telly with its endless reruns and commercials.

I should be going out and making new friends but instead I sit and wait for Prince Charming to arrive at my doorsteps holding the golden glass slipper.

I should be taking a class in public speaking but instead I am writing in my journal of how painfully bashful and insecure I feel.

I should be opening the door in the wall but instead I am drinking my tea and sorting out my bills.

I should be saying ‘no’ when I really meant to say ‘yes’ but instead I say ‘hello’ to goodbye and ‘goodbye’ to hello.

When arriving at my sister’s home, I should be doing the laundry but instead… I am gazing so lovingly at my adorable niece.

I should be opening the window of my soul but instead I ponder why the war goes on and on and never ends.

I should be wearing bright colors but instead I wear black for the many who die, for the unborn child and, for all those who are cast away and long forgotten.

I should be writing of Tessmaralda and her three winsome cats but I am writing in my Mad Mad Diary instead.