Oh, the things I can get done in the dark hours when I know I don’t have to get up with the birds the next day. I listen to the chime of the mantel clock strike a late hour as I’ve just finished producing, pricing, and recording a load of inventory for a drop at a gift shop that’s been waiting for my goods for three months. If I were going to the day job tomorrow I’d have been in bed hours ago, probably tossing and turning with thoughts of how I could better spend my time.
The calendar flips its days, weeks and months to the finish line when I can say goodbye to the day job. It’s all I can think about these days. To spend time in this life exactly how I want to seems to be my purpose. Nothing specific, just my whim. How glorious that will be.
I’ve been avoiding writing lately, and I can’t really understand why. It’s not that I don’t have time; I do have some, enough, yet I’ve been avoiding it. Maybe it’s because that’s all I want to do, and the snippets of time afforded me only tease and torment. Or maybe I don’t really want to write at all. I haven’t figured it out yet. But here I am in the silence of the night, fulfilled with what I accomplished without a solid bedtime, writing.
Day after tomorrow I’ll be going to the family cottage for the holiday weekend, and I’m taking my laptop with me. Some of my family members might smirk at my bringing technology to the rustic nature of the cottage, but I’m not the only one bringing things to smirk at. Enough said, eh Charlotte? Perhaps I’ll find some time between roasting stale Peeps (a new delicacy Charlotte is going to try with Easter leftovers) and cleaning out boats and cottage rooms to return to my work in progress, rewriting/editing the first draft of the novel I wrote last November.
Such ramblings I have when I can relish the dark summer night. Bear with me, for there may be more to come. My blogging may take a turn, or continue to wane; one never knows. I’m just getting in practice for that time when all I have to listen to is my whim.