I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. Today alone I have had two deadlines to meet, a NaBloBlastedMo post to write, a birthday lunch to plan for and cook, all amidst my usual daily tasks of delivering, collecting and shepherding my clan. In between I managed to fit in an hour-long walk and a visit to a friend for tea. The rest of the week, next week and forevermore contain a stream of deadlines like a vapour trail I’ve not yet created. The Season, a six-month period which contains all our birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, lantern festivals, Easters, has started. And I actually imagined I would manage NaNoWriMo!
Am I addicted to stress? If I removed my work from the equation, which I could do seeing I’m freelance and not beholden to anyone, I would have time for creative writing, for pinning down that hovering novel and for meditative yoga practice instead of a few slapdash sun salutations of a morning. And yet right now, I can’t imagine my life without the work. The money’s nice, but it’s more about the work, the taking on and doing of work, that pleases me. I like the satisfaction of handing in a job well done, the religious meeting of deadlines, and knowing that people find me reliable and come back to me with more work.
Clearly, I’ve caught the Protestant Work Ethic really badly. Anyone got a cure?