Sometimes I look forward to Mondays. I’m well-rested after the weekend and I’m ready to tackle work first thing Monday morning. Sometimes I dread Mondays, especially if there are boring meetings scheduled or some unpleasant task to deal with. Quite often, I just wish I had another day in the weekend. This morning, I’m kind of feeling that way. This weekend wasn’t completely packed or anything, but it was quite busy. Soccer games, laundry, retrieving Mr. Geeky at the airport. I could use a day of quiet. By all accounts, though, I should be looking foward to today. My schedule is completely clear. I’m planning on tackling two projects that I’m nearly finished with and perhaps digging into a third. And it’s likely that once I sit down at my desk with a fresh cup of coffee and actually start working, I’ll be engaged and happy. It’s in the abstract that I don’t like work, not in the particulars. Well, at least not in most of the particulars. Some of the particulars, they send me into a tailspin.
Last night, while writing my NaNo novel (which still sucks), I suddenly realized that I had gotten so lost in it that I didn’t even know what day it was. It was a really weird feeling, kind of like waking up in the middle of the night and not being sure where you are. I can’t even remember the last time I had that experience, or if I’ve ever had it. I write a lot. I write at work. I write in my spare time, here and elsewhere. I love it. Hell, I was a creative writing major. What do you expect? I run into so many people who find writing painful and just don’t understand how I can write so much. It’s so much work, they say. I agree. It is. But it doesn’t feel like work to me. And that’s why work is sometimes a pain in the ass. Even when I’m doing something I generally enjoy, it still feels like work.