I should have a lot of free time. Time to get stuff done, to see people I’ve been meaning to see. To edit one of my novels and try to submit it somewhere. My son takes a lot of my free time, but I only have him every other week now, so there should be oodles of time, right? But I schedule stuff when I don’t have him that I can’t take care of when I do. Have to get that body work done on the car. Mammogram. Cook all the food. Go sign up for that back-up daycare place. Return stuff to stores, pick up other stuff I need. PTA meetings. Then all of a sudden it’s late and I’m tired, and I’ve been sitting in front of a computer most of the day and I don’t want to do it anymore.
Some of this is winter. With the sun and the light into the evenings in summer, I feel much more productive for a much longer period of time. If I’m not out in the beautiful weather until dark, I’m inside and more active there, for a longer period of time. Staying up late is easier, getting up is easier. Hell, everything is easier for me when I’m warm and there’s going to be sun hitting my face for at least a few minutes of the day.
I think I need to win some kind of jackpot. I’m not totally greedy, I don’t need the whole Powerball, but, you know, just enough so that I wouldn’t have to work all day, to have my precious, most productive hours taken up by writing for someone else, and instead I could write what I want to write, all day long. That would be lovely. Then I wouldn’t feel like I was stealing from writing time to work out, to cook, to see friends.
I need to see people during the winter. I could easily turn into some sort of Hemingway/Thoreau blend and just drink and write and shut off the world and never see anyone. This makes me surly and dissatisfied with people and things, short-tempered and impatient. So I go see people and do things, even though I don’t always feel like it, because it is good for my soul. But writing is also good for my soul. It’s tough to find the balance.
My to-do list seems longer than ever. I’m not balanced right now. When I’m off-kilter, I fall. Who will pick me up?
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