Day Off

I write every day. Not because I think there’s some magical writing power that’s delivered by writing every day (some people who give this advice seem to believe this) but because I only have so much time each day to write, so missing one messes up my plans quite a bit.

Usually if I end up not writing, I feel guilty, and I keep telling myself to write and won’t let myself do anything else important. It turns into a big waste of time. Sometimes though I do the smart thing and give myself the day off.

Like yesterday, when my job ate my brain. Instead of writing, or trying to convince myself to write, I made dinner, read the paper, and plopped myself on the couch. I finished one book, started a second, and read about an issue and a half of National Geographic (Vikings on Baffin Island and shamans in Mongolia). It was glorious. I felt like I had hours and hours of free time. (Because, well, I had hours and hours of free time.) Sometimes you just need a break.

Today is also a no-writing day, since I have to go to the grocery store (the day before Thanksgiving, oops) and make a cheesecake. For certain definitions of “have to”.

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