I know, that seems incredibly mundane, writing on a work night. It was a little more than 850 words, which is a nice surprise, considering I don’t write on work days anymore.
You see, before I went to day shift, I had my mornings to myself. I would fritter away great chunks of it, but still managed to get a little something done here or there. I had quiet time to myself, every day, where I could do my own thing. I missed spending time with my spouse (here after known as The Boy or just Todd), who worked a normal day-time shift. We had only two nights together, every week. I was so excited when I switched to day shift, and I still am because everyone else, almost, has nights off too. No more splitting it up every week, one night out and one night it and lets get the rotation set for our friends and family. Or worse, seeing him have a social life while I came home at 10:30 pm at night too tired to participate.
So now we have every night. Which is great.
Except I’m not writing at all.
Mostly ’cause I feel guilty. Like I shouldn’t go off and do something on my own because it would be rude, you know? I sit there watching a really boring show that adds nothing to my life beyond a few brief moments of humor to hang out together. Okay, some of it is good, and I want to watch those shows, but how does the rest of the night get chewed up watching filler? I watch so much TV now, and it’s bugging me. I’m not reading like I used to, not writing like I used to. And not doing either like I want to.
Hell, the only reason I’ve been up in my room for the last two hours is that the guys are over to play Rock Band with him, and while I enjoy it, I usually just sit there watching (or playing with programs on the Mac) and watching the evening hemorrhage away. There’s an extra guy over tonight, so there isn’t really room for me to be downstairs, so I bowed out early to give everyone room, hid out upstairs, listening to last night’s Daily Show replay and keeping tabs on the live feed from the Presidential Debate on CNN. I can hear Barack Obama and John McCain over the plastic-thumping, strum-clicking, squeaky-singing game play from the living room below.
And I wrote. I finished the scene that I was sort of stuck in, started the next, and might be able to finish Chapter Four the next time I sit down to write. The sensation of being stuck seems to have passed.
I want to write more at night, every night. I want to know I have The Boy’s support. I know I do. I just need the space. Maybe I need the boot in the ass, too.
In other news, I have confirmed my time off for next week, when The Boy and I head to Toronto for his Investment Forum. Five days of food, frolic and finance. Well, not so much the finance for me. After my less than spectacular “writing trip” in May, I want to make this one count. I walked so much that first morning last time, tired myself out so completely, that I spent the next day and a half walking aimlessly, in a bleak daze punctuated by brief interludes of sleep, food and book purchasing. I’m not going to try and cram it all in. ROM, yes. AGO, no. (Still closed.) Antiques market, yes. Kensington, yes. That will be research. Then writing, just pounding the keys on the Macbook and writing in a bunch of different places. Then food and relaxing.
Not necessarily in any particular sort of order, except random and fun.