Holiday

I’ve just returned from a self-imposed, scheduled holiday from writing. Having written one full novel already this year, it seemed a little too extravagant and gaudy to complete a second full novel in the same calendar year.

People might think that I neglect my children for my passion. They might guess that my kitchen table is sticky while my computer keyboard is hot. No. No use in being the eager beaver.

So, what did I do during my self-scheduled denial? For starters, I cleaned the sticky table. Then I read a dozen novels, attended a dozen parties, and cheated a dozen times by secretly writing a little here and there while my family slumbered in their beds.

I should probably not admit to the last. After all, for an unpublished author, such as I, with two completed novels and a third well on its way, I ought to at least pretend to enjoy not writing. It is in bad taste to be so devoted to my projects when I have yet to get anyone but my loved ones to care about them. There is an air of wastefulness to that kind of productivity.

However, if I was a published author, these little jaunts into writing holidays could be construed as laziness or worse, a loss of creative vision by the author.

Whatever the status of this novelist, with the new year, I am happy to say that I am ready to get back to my industrious writing schedule of five days a week.