To do the dishes, or to write? That’s the question.

Why do I always choose the dishes, when really what I want to do is write?

Because doing the dishes is so much easier. It’s boring, yes, but it’s a discreet task that has a beginning, a middle and an end, and a very clear purpose. Yes, I can do it well or not, but there’s no questioning the definition of what is a good job and what is not. There are no grey areas and it’s not possible to get swept up in existential questions. In order to eat our next meal, we require dishes that do not have the last meal stuck on them. It’s a survival task.

Writing however is messy and filled with questions of self-worth, purpose and identity. There’s no end to it, unless I decide there is. It’s like a pile of dirty dishes that never get completely cleaned. Sometimes it feels like you’re getting there, but most of the time not. Except for that rare magical moment when an idea takes hold, the pen starts to move and the brain flies along with it, forgetting everything else. That’s something that never comes with doing the dishes.

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