The frustrating thing about writing for a living, is that there’s no time to write for pleasure. Being self-employed instils a guilt complex that materialises when you sit down with good intentions to write more of that second novel, or jot your blog, or stretch your Twitter threads, etc. But the second you’re facing the screen you realise this that needs doing, or that needs writing, or another thing needs to be added to someone’s website, or something needs to be sent to someone. Even as I write this I’m mildly anxious because I should really be writing a user manual for a piece of e-commerce software (sorry Peter — if you’re reading this).
In this house, the evening is the best time to write — toddler and dog have both been walked and fed and are now sleeping; cat is currently balancing on the edge of the dog’s drinking water bowl considering the best form of entry (it turned out to be chin first). Mrs C is studying for her driving theory test next week. The phones and Skype are quiet. Email is confined to the latest offers from Aldi, Waitrose and various insurance companies. Rather than requests for stuff to be written, edited, designed, created, sent, thought about, etc.
It’s quiet.
But I’m self-employed, with a mortgage to pay, bills, an almost-2 years toddler. The future is the problem, because it’s always there. So while I’ve paid the bills this month, I have to make sure I can pay them next month, and the month after that, ad infinitum (not literally of course — it just seems that it takes infinity to pay off your mortgage).
I can’t be frivolous with time.
I was never any good at sprinting, but loved running loads of miles. I love long, long walks up big hills. I love big projects. I’ve just completed an e-commerce site that’s taken the best part of three months to put together. And I really enjoy writing book-length stuff. Although the absence of a publisher or an agent, and the lack of available time to find one, means any stuff that does get written gets shelved. I work on the basis that at some time in the future I’ll have time to do what I need to do to try and get my own stuff published. Even if that means starting up a digital publishing business — which I could do if I had the time to do it. But the point is that I enjoy big, complicated, difficult stuff. It’s an endurance thang.
I have more patience than just about anyone I know. Apart from possibly Ed. But I’ll eliminate him on the basis that he works extremely hard to be inert by thinking a lot, which takes a lot of mental energy. And any kind of energy counts as work. Being professionally inert doesn’t count.
I can wait for years.
My dentist, wonderful man that he is, always keeps me waiting — for at least 45 minutes. Then apologises profusely. I always tell him not too, because sitting in that waiting room every six months, with my mobile switched off and nothing to do but wait is one of the most enjoyable things to do. No guilt about the fact I should be doing something else, and totally excusable inaccessibility. Where else can you enjoy that these days? Driving.
I enjoy driving long distances on my own. I don’t have in-car access to my mobile. If it rings I stop when I can and call back. I can’t use a computer in the car either. So again I can enjoy totally excusable inaccessbility. Driving is a luxury.
When is ‘one day’? One day I’ll sit all day, and all night if I want to, and write books, or plays, or short stories, or any damned thing I want to. I took a year off once, and wrote solidly for six months. It was probably the best thing I’ve ever done. I’ll do it again one day.
Oh well. I guess I’d better get back to that manual…
Thanks for your time.
1 Comment
September 10, 2009 at 1:51 pm
Duuuuh! Thanks…
(it was the end of a long day)
C