Instead of writing I like to scroll through the sale section pages of the Urban Outfitters website looking at homeware items I will never buy. Instead of writing, I will look up old and current news stories to remind myself why retailers like this are bad, even if pretending to shop on their websites feels something like good. Instead of writing, I put a very aesthetic and very practical hydro sonic water flosser into my cart and then abandon it once I reach the end of the sale pages, numbering six to eight on average.
Instead of writing, I knit. The same sweater, over again, going on four times to completion. Even after wearing it once or twice I will un- and re-knit it. Because there is a small flaw I can see in the back if I face away from the mirror and crane my neck really hard.
Instead of writing I look for something that needs to be cleaned or organized in my flat. Right now the oven is grimy with an olive oil spill and this fact, even hidden behind a door as it is, gives me a thrill. First: to research, locate, and purchase the right non-abrasive products to clean this sleek appliance with its fragile-seeming stove top. Then: to monitor the delivery schedule of these items and/or plan an outing to buy them. Finally: the actual task of cleaning the oven and cooker. One task, so many opportunities to not write.
Instead of writing I watch the entirety of a series that has been on television for 17 seasons. Even if the series has no narrative or follows an identical narrative each season. Even if the series involves a cast of very wealthy people who do only two things (drink and yell). Even if the series makes me, as a viewer, more inclined to drink and yell. Even if I only enjoy one of those things.
Instead of writing I scroll through social media with one hand while my other hand systematically pulls strands of hair out of my head. Even if writing would keep both hands busy and keep me from going bald. Instead of writing I scroll, like, repost, and pull hair until my eyes blur with tears either from the images I’m seeing or from the sting of a plucked strand.
Instead of writing I write. Never for myself but for the people who pay me to write so that I can pay the landlord, the cell phone company, the grocery store that is also the cell phone company, the internet company that is also the concert venue arena, and the nice man who sells jarred pickles and wasp-laden wildflowers at the Saturday market.
Instead of writing I make lists of books I want to read or recipes I want to make or groceries I need to have delivered for the recipes I want to make. Instead of writing I write lists of ways to feel better that don’t require me to sit down and do actual writing. Anything but that.