Friday, November 9, 2012

Friday Night Lights

Earlier this week my wife informed me that she would be working most of this weekend . . . parlaying her 60+ hour-per-week principal job into a 70+ hour-per-week sporting event extravaganza.  Which means that I'll be home alone on Friday night, Saturday night, and most of Sunday afternoon . . . and can get a lot of writing accomplished. 

As I recall, the late Isaac Asimov once quipped that he didn't enjoy publishing books, he just liked writing them.  I suppose I'm cut from this same cloth . . . though God knows I have not met with the same level of success or proficiency.  Still, two evenings of writing is great sport for me, and I have plenty to accomplish.

This past week I signed another contract for some additional short essays (which I now have to write and deliver before December) and I am waiting under great duress and expectation for the giddy-up on several books that I hope to deliver, whole and in apple-pie order, at various deadlines in 2013. 

(More on this in 2013 after I've had a decent meal and a full eight hours of sleep.)

Whenever my wife returns at eleven o'clock from these middle-school sporting forays, she wants to know:  "What did you accomplish today?"

* NOTE:  She asks this to make me feel guilty, knowing full well that she has worked much harder and longer than I, as she only gets five hours of sleep a night.  She is always surprised when I tell her that I have, indeed, worked a full day too, but also cleaned a toilet, fixed myself a Hot Pocket, puked it, and afterwards wrote for three hours fueled by pure adrenalin and black coffee.  Then she tests my patience by asking if I have been writing anything for money, as she knows that most of my writing is pure speculation, like panning for gold, and that even when I do get paid, it is usually in the form of IOUs or coupons to Pizza Hut.  She informs me that she is tired, and must now retire to bed, whereupon I write for another three hours.  This is my way of showing her who's boss.  It is also where my best love poetry comes from.  And afterwards, I turn out the lights.   

 

1 comment:

Aaron Helman said...

I especially like that you cleaned the toilet BEFORE puking your hot pocket. :)