Writing

I’m writing with pen. Scribbling and doodling. Writing a rough draft. Then an even rougher draft. Falling asleep and knocking coffee all over my pages. Using up my whole notebook. Running to the paper store and begging for all the paper in the world. They laugh at me. But I look them in the eye and they give me their longest scroll, so I can continue. My pen is dying, but I’m alive. I’m scribbling over scribbles. I tell them it’s a book. I tell them I will publish it whenever the mood strikes. They laugh. I ignore them. I write and write in peace and madness. Pens die. Paper is thin. A book? They ask. I show them the scribbles. I show them the way. And maybe it is just scribbles… And maybe those publishers would laugh… But hey? They couldn’t help but read it anyway.