Lots of reading, no writing

Things I read today:
The Merchant of Venice --Shakespeare
"Araby" --James Joyce
"A Loaf of Bread" --James Alan McPherson
"The Swimmer" --John Cheever
"I Stand Here Ironing" --Tillie Olsen
"Uncle Ben's Choice" --Chinua Achebe

I wrote absolutely nothing all day. Tomorrow I write.
Lots of catch-up and a conference less than two weeks away.
Time to get busy writing--and that's it. No room for excuses or weak explanations.

Unfortunately, the process of writing is a painful process--like bleeding to death--slow and agonizing. Every keystoke equals a drop, until finally, there is no more. You have become the proverbial turnip, so to speak.
You collapse. You count the seconds. You breathe a few more times. You lie still.
Your eyes pop open and you're staring at the monitor again, the cursor blinking. You weaken a bit as you start typing. Somewhere you hear the drip-drip-drip of splattering blood. You've heard others say how it cleanses, how it comes so easily, how it is an unstoppable current of passion. They can't live without it, they say. It's who they are, it's what defines them, they say. But you've read the kind of stuff they write. And it's shit.
They're just too stupid to realize it.