I have a bit of a confession: I didn’t write anything yesterday. I shouldn’t be terribly happy about that, because I try very hard to Write Something Every Day*. It’s like, one of a handful of real rules I attempt to live by on a daily basis. That list includes, but is not limited to, Don’t be the Drunk and/or Angry Asshole Dad at a Little League Game, and, of course, Your Junk Is NOT For Public Display, Ever.
Maybe some day I’ll share the whole list. It’s mostly common sense stuff that, based on the evening news these days, apparently isn’t always so common anymore.
Anyway, so I didn’t do any writing yesterday, and I totally should have because it was Monday. But it wasn’t just Monday. It was Memorial Day, and as we all know, Memorial Day marks the officially start of Pool and/or Grilling Season.
I suppose some might consider it the official start of summer, too, but as 3 of my 4 children are a bit too quick to point out, it isn’t really summer until later this month. Whether or not that argument has any merit is another post.
Incidentally, I am apparently raising a brood of children who revel in the irritating expression of semantics. I take consolation from the thought that while it makes them occasionally obnoxious to each other, twenty years from now I’ll have either offspring writing a David E. Kelley TV legal dramedy or lawyers in the family to defend me when I finally snap and start spraying neighborhood kids with a high-pressure water hose for riding their Huffys** across my crabgrass-laden yard.
At any rate, yesterday was Monday and I didn’t do any writing. And I should have. I have not one, but two books to work on, and not one, but two blogs I might have written for, and not one, but two Rainbow Brite fan-fiction novellas half-written.
Ahem. Um, yeah. Can we forget I said that last part?
Then again, yesterday was also a holiday. Yes, I realize that the life of a professional writer can lead to times where you have to work regardless of what the calendar says, whether the pool’s open or not, or who’s getting together for a cornucopia of cold beers and grilled meats. The fact of the matter, though, is that today, right now, I’m only an aspiring professional writer. And while that certainly isn’t ideal—my time will come, oh, yes, my time will come—it does have one or two minor benefits. Deciding to take off the occasional holiday, because, well, I can, is one of them, and so I’m not going to sweat it.
I mean, I did sweat; it was over 90 degrees yesterday, but that’s neither here nor there.
The point is that we all tend to focus on achieving that next goal, taking that next step, and chasing that moment of arrival when all our dreams come true. While that’s important—crucial, even—it can also be a little short-sighted.
Sometimes, reaching for that moment means missing out on this moment. Don’t let that happen.
Sometimes you have to play hooky, even if it means playing it from yourself.
*The caveat there is that I do generally not write on Sunday. Not because I’m a crazy zealot or anything, but because I tend to believe that one day out of seven for family and just imagining/thinking rather than actually writing is good for both the soul and one’s scribbly output. It works for me.
**What do you mean, no one has a Huffy anymore? Back in my day, we ALLLLL had Huffys!