My feet are big. Size fifteen shoes.

I don’t walk very fast, but I walk a lot. Except when its cold.

I write books. Sometimes big books. Slower and slower in rate, I write books.

What else do my feet and my books have in common? They work, but they’re ugly. They have imperfections. Both my feet and my books carry me forward.

Though I like a few things about my feet, I like far more about my books. And lately, I use my feet every day, but I don’t write every day. I have to equalize writing and walking, because I’ll always need to walk most days, and I always need to write.

I need to embrace the uncertainty of the books. I need to dedicate to the work. The sad fact is, I know what must be done, but I am trapped in my masochistic addiction to procrastination. This addiction must be broken.

And I will find a way to break it. Big feet or not.


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