Mackenzie K. Writes

I don’t have time to write. I get up and I stretch and yawn and crack open my Bible and read something–anything–and close it again. I get out of bed and stumble and turn on the light and say “good morning, little guy” to the bird staring at me like I should have been up three hours ago and I don’t have time to write.

I make breakfast and while I’m cooking the eggs I listen to ABBA and think “man, I wish I had time to write” but instead I am here scraping egg goo off a pan and into a bowl and into my mouth and into the sink. And I eat the eggs and I look at my school assignments for the day and I don’t have time to write.

So I get out my phone and I

scroll

and

scroll

and

scroll

and

see all of the people on the internet who have the time to write because they have somehow cracked the “code” that serious writers crack and that is how to find the time to write.

But not me. Not here. Not now.

And so I log off my computer and I slip on my shoes and I say goodbye to the bird who I’ll miss and I leave for work and I

work

and

work

and

work

and

wait until it’s my lunch break when I will have an hour to sit and open my phone and

scroll

and

scroll

and

scroll

and

slip my phone back into my pocket and work till the end of my shift. And I’ll drive home and I’ll play music and I’ll think about my story and how wonderful it would be if I had time to write but I don’t because at home there is dinner and schoolwork and staring at a wall and I don’t know how other writers do it.

Writers write but I don’t have the time and so I glance at the clock and it’s 7PM and I glance at the clock and it’s 9PM and I glance at the clock and set my alarm and go to bed and think what a wonderful world it would be if I could write.

But it’s morning and I get out of bed and stumble and turn on the light and say “good morning, little guy” to the bird staring at me like I should have been up three hours ago and I don’t have time to write.