Sometimes We Need A Break

It’s quite over here, and that’s a nice thing.

A wonderful guilty pleasure.

Over the last few days, I’ve need a good amount of time to just recover from all the work on the novel I’ve been working on over the last year and half, and from all the family crises that seem to take place every other week. So I watched the entire first season of Teen Wolf and read a book. It is so nice to be able to take a break and let my mind just wander off to other places and observe and feel for characters that seem so real.

I think I have a terrible family gene that has been passed down from generation to generation: workaholism. My grandpa worked for years and years in real estate often from morning to night, leaving dinner to make a deal. When he retired, he worked on joke books, comics from the paper, reading, working on puzzles and playing cards. He could not not be doing something. My grandma works much the same, always days or weeks behind what she wanted to get gone. My dad has the same issue. He would work 10-12 hour days in construction often 5 to 6 days a week (which is by no means easy). Even on his off time he’d work on a website or reading or doing research online. My brother said he is a workaholic as well, and he would have to be to earn a doctoral thesis and work and maintain a life as well. My cousin and aunt exhibit the same symptoms. I think my mom is as well, but less so.

For me, I take on more than I can handle. Right now, I’m working on my MFA application for graduate school (not an easy task for anyone), which includes researching schools, choosing schools, working on personal statements and writing samples and trying to scrape enough together to pay for all the applications (no easy task on a severally limited income). Also, I’m re-writing the novel I finish in December of last year, and I’m half way through. Each chapter takes a day with tons of thinking. I work out and I’ve cut back to three days a week to make time for everything else (I work out to improve my appearance, improve my mood, and to keep me sane). I write blogs, and check twitter and facebook—hey, it’s official work (even though I enjoy it most of the time). I have two writers groups (one of which I’ve missed every time this month because of family things) and poetry readings (which I’ve missed because I have no gas money). It feels like I’m running around and nothing much of anything is getting done, and yet, it is. As behind as I feel I am. Maybe it’s a family gene that tells me I should have my application ready, that the novel should be written and the next half-way done, and maybe it’s the gene that says I should have more publication and I should be writing queries and submitting. (Not to forget the whole trying to date people.) Maybe. Maybe it isn’t.

I sometimes wish I had the time I seemed to have when I moved back home and I didn’t know anyone, and I had all the time I wanted to read and write. Instead I have to live with what I have, love what I have, and find ways to release what I consider my duties and enjoy every moment I have. Because that is what matters.


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