THE DAY
I’ve always been terrible at taking time off.
I think it probably goes back to when I was a kid. When the weekend rolled around, that was my dad’s cue to go out and do stuff around the house: mowing, yardwork, the cars, whatever. Thing was, we were always expected to help with whatever he had going. Now, don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against kids doing work. In fact, I think every person in a house should do his or her part. So it’s not chores per se that I have a problem with, and Lord knows, I did my share of them. It was that we were expected to always be working with my dad on whatever he had going (even if we’d finished other chores—like mine was to do the vacuuming and dishes (before dishwashers) and laundry on top of the regular yardwork). So even if I was done and wanted to go read a book or something, I wasn’t supposed to. I was supposed to go out and ask my dad what else he needed me to do. In fact, I remember one sweltering day when I’d done the trimming and garden and stuff, and my dad decided he wanted to, I don’t know, dig post holes or something. Anyway, he nearly gets heat stroke; ends up on the sofa, with a wet cloth and the whole nine yards; and I remember my mother saying something like this would never have happened if my brother and I had helped our dad. (Uh, well, I had—yes, I had gone back inside finally and cleaned up and was just settling down to maybe read a book because I was done–but I guess the idea was that there’s always something that needs doing and we weren’t supposed to take time off. Ever.)
I don’t know if that accounts for my uneasiness about taking time off, this idea that some parent in my head disapproves. But I try to write every day, even though I do get tired. Yes, I like to write. But doesn’t everyone need a little time?
So this is something with which I constantly struggle. I think that the husband aides and abets, too, because he’s also a workaholic. So I’ll write and push everything else to one side. On the one hand, this is good if I get words done. On the other, though, this is bad if I work so much that I don’t read, never see a movie, don’t just hang, take a walk that isn’t programmed time at the gym, that kind of thing.
Sundays are when I try to throttle back a bit: bake a cake; write for only half a day. Today, though, I made the conscious decision not to write at all, and it is driving me nuts.
I had/have good reasons. I’ve neglected some business stuff; I’ve added on some more pressure by signing up for a cover design course and I am already freaking out about that. (Like I downloaded InDesign today and I’m totally lost. And I’m thinking of the number of hours I’ll spend learning this damn thing, all so I can—maybe—upload some stories at some point or a book. If I ever get around to it. I want to drop out of the course, and then I think that, no, other people learn this, and so can I.)
At one point about a month ago, I had these really great ideas about spending some time doing other projects on the weekends: like writing short stories and letting the book marinate.
Hasn’t happened.
I’ve been focused only on the book. This is both good and bad. I need to be obsessed. Getting obsessed is a good sign because it usually means that the book is finally finding a home in my head.
The downside is that everything else goes by the wayside. I manage the cooking and some housework. I also exercise. But that’s it. My life becomes very monotonal, and this goes on for months.
It’s also not very healthy because no one is just about work, no matter how much about work the husband and I are.
So, today, I really tried, and I did it—took time off, let the book marinate (even though I woke up really early thinking about the book and what scene should come next; as I said yesterday, all the layering that I’ve done is now making my life much more difficult. The characters are richer, and so is the story—but it means going back and making everything consistent—and so I feel like all I’m doing is constantly looping backward. Although I’m really not NOT making progress; of course, I am. Other people do this all the time. Still others wait until they’re done, make notes along the way, and then go back through and redraft. So we all have our own ways.).
Anyway, I flogged myself about not writing and then tried to enjoy the day. Semi-succeeded. Baked a cake, too: Pumpkin Spice with Orange Cream Cheese Glaze
WRITING OUT LOUD
GHOST IN THE MACHINE
Day 1: 4326
Day 2: 2085
Day 3: 3011
Day 4: 2652
Day 5: 3210
Day 6: 3450
Day 7: 0
Blog Post: 1158
***
What I’m Watching:
Saw Spectre with the husband. Standard Bond and not as good as Skyfall. Feels like a send-off for Daniel Craig, which would be a shame. He’s been the best Bond by far.
Also started The Astronaut Wives Club; this was a limited series on ABC earlier this year, and I’m not even sure how this ended up on my radar. (Perhaps because the book by the same name was listed on the Kindle Daily Deals or BookBub? I don’t really recall.) Anyway, saw the first two episodes, and it’s really quite good. Not as good as, say, Mad Men, but it’s a different kind of series. I know that we’re supposed to shake our heads over the repressiveness of it all, but I sort of feel as if I’ve been there-done that. Also, if you know any history at all, you know what’s going to happen, so that kind of takes some of the drama out of the series. There were some revelations, though; I didn’t know about Annie Glenn’s stammer or that Trudy Cooper was a licensed pilot. So that’s neat. But it’s not as if this is breaking new ground. Still…enjoyable.
***
What I’m Reading:
The Grownup by Gillian Flynn: it’s …cute. A decent story so far. I only managed a few pages before I fell asleep last night (went to bed way too late).
Abandon by Blake Crouch: no progress—or maybe I managed a chapter. Can’t recall, so that’s never a good sign. But I have been tired.
Picked up The Revenant by Michael Punke; haven’t started it yet, but it looks like my kind of read.
(Finished The Dog Lived and So Will I; Wylding Hall. Punted The Far End of Happy, The Euthanist.)
