When I worked full time, I had limited time to write. I would dream about writing at work, wish I could turn off the 35 children I was trying to teach and tune in to my novel’s characters.
Now, I have ALL day, minus time to job search, which I should be doing more of. I’ll look at my work in progress, then stare at it, then look at Facebook (again) and Twitter (again) and play Mahjong (again). For some new and different procrastination technique, I could figure out the wonders of Google + which I’ve joined. It’s something about circles.
Stress from the job made me want to escape real life. It fed my creative energy and my motivation to dream and do something to hopefully get me out of the need of a “real” job. Now I don’t have that. Might be coming soon, as we run out of money.
I like staying home too much. Our house is small and comfortable, slightly untidy and lived in. I like hiding away, especially in this hellish summer heat. It doesn’t bother me if the only time I open the door is to get the mail or take the trash out. We go to church on Sunday. Isn’t that enough out for a introverted dork like myself? Well, maybe not.
There were other good things about my job. I loved the kids-a few at a time. And I did have some good times with whole classes and I think one or two kids actually learned something, even if it didn’t show up on the AIMS test. I worked with some good people, too. People I will miss.
The structure the job gave my day was useful. I’m a “whatever, whenever” kind of gal. I’ll go to sleep whenever, day or night, cook food whenever. Write whenever, wear whatever when I’m hanging around home. Working told me “If you want to write, you have to do it between these hours, and no, you can’t stay up until two just because your muse wants to.” So, I wrote during those hours. I needed to. My sanity depended on it. And that’s not much of an overstatement.
My husband works nights and his four workdays vary every week. He doesn’t sleep for six or seven or eight hours straight. He’ll get up late morning, go back to bed in the afternoon and wake up again in the evening. That doesn’t help either one of us. About the only regular thing we’ve been doing is watching the Diamondbacks in the evening.
I need external expectations to help me be productive and I don’t really like that. I’m kind of wishing I could come up with a series of gigs to make money, different jobs to challenge my mind, meet new people and learn new skills. But if I can’t structure myself to be productive, I’m setting myself up for trouble and failure.
Or possibly, as far as my novel goes, maybe I’m scared to finish it and put it out there for e-sale or to be rejected by agents. Maybe I’m afraid it will be good and I’ll have succeeded at something and make a little money and be compelled to do it again.
I have the time I dreamed of. Now, I have to learn to be productive and use it wisely.