Since about December 15, I think I’ve had maybe three days off. Christmas Day, St. Patrick’s Day and, well, some other day I can’t seem to remember.
Last night, I went to bed at about 10 p.m. and woke up at 10 a.m. Catching up on sleep.
I had intended to do absolutely nothing today except some chores, take a walk and go to the library and do some writing. But, on my cell phone there was notification from a school principal of a special event going on at their school.
So, I hopped into my car and covered it. Took lots of pics and interviewed two people.
Then, after that, up to a library to get pictures of a teacher and artist autographing a book they had worked on.
Tomorrow, I will be getting pictures of athletes who made All-Conference teams. Later that afternoon, I will treat myself and go to a matinee showing of Prometheus.
It’s all appreciated greatly, since it means work and since with my editor being on vacation this week, it’s good to go out and get lots of pictures and stories for the newspaper. It is always better to have too many pictures and stories than not enough.
And then, when not writing for the paper, there’s also blogging, writing fiction and journaling. So, in essence, there probably is (or shouldn’t be) no such thing as a real day off for a writer. A writer writes every day. And to quote that one film Throw Mama From The Train, a writer writes always.
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