I woke up Sunday morning for the first time in year without thinking about what work I needed to do that day on the book. The manuscript sits in a stack on the shelf next to me. (They want it printed on paper in addition to being burned onto a CD! How quaint!)
I took a week off work to finish, but since it’s done, I’m just being lazy. I’ve been thoroughly enjoying working on the book, but I didn’t realize how quietly stressful it had become to spend every non-work hour of my life either working on my book or being subconsciously aware that I wasn’t working on my book.
Yesterday afternoon Lissa and my sister, Lisa, (no, those aren’t misspellings, and yes, it’s a bit confusing) went shoe-shopping with me. I had lunch today with friends. Tomorrow Lissa and I and my parents are going down to the Bosque del Apache. Tonight Nora and I are going to Ta Lin. I need chocolate. Thursday morning I’m going cycling with a friend I’ve barely ridden with in months. At no point in all of this do I have to worry about getting back and writing another 500 words before bedtime.
I’m in the middle of two books that have absolutely nothing to do with climate, drought, water or the West: Richard Florida’s Rise of the Creative Class (I know, all the cool kids read this one five years ago) and John Leland’s Hip: The History (favorite line, a quote from James Russell Lowell: “Whitman is a rowdy, a New York tough, a loafer, a frequenter of low places, a friend of cab drivers!” Hip I’m not.). Nice to be able to curl up guilt free with a book, or lie prone on the couch and watch relatively inconsequential election returns from – what, Michigan’s Republican primary? Sweet. What’s up with that Mitt guy’s hair?