When I was a kid, I lived for the big holidays. Labor Day, for example, was that last bout of fun and BBQ before the tedium of school. I don't recall any exceptionally funky Labor Days, but they were all one less Monday worth of work. This made holidays all right with me.
And then I grew up.
Know what Labor Day does to me now? The same thing other paid holidays do to me. As a quasi-hermetic writer, I wanna take advantage of the free time, stay home, and write something new and twisted. I run from dawn-to-dark throughout a typical week, barely able to write/polish more than 3 or 4 hours a day (on a good day). The idea of having Saturday-to-Monday pretty much to myself is SOOOO appealing, because it's mostly free time. I should be writing stories by the bushel, right?
Nope.
It's 4:14pm on Saturday the 3rd. I wrapped my daily chores about 4 hours ago. Between then and now, I've done diddly. And I feel guilty about it. Like I'm loafin' or something. I wanna catch up on my sleep, watch movies, and have fun. And you know what? I'm gonna.
This is the feeling you wanna have someday. It means that you've chased your dream so far that it's actually hard to stop and be a "civilian" for three measily days. Yeah, they're three days of your life that you won't get back. And if you haven't written anything in weeks/longer, maybe this is an opportunity to get back into the groove. But for you fellow workaholics out there . . . I say break into your bank accounts and have a little fun this weekend (I say this as I'm about to pay for some cover art)!!!!!!
Writers write. It's what we do.
Just don't forget to smell the roses/ribs/whatever once in a while.
Have a nice Labor Day!
'Til next week . . .
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