To be honest, I kind of hate the word ‘productivity’. I hate the connotation that human beings need to produce to be valuable. Tireless housewives & househusbands produce nothing other than hot meals, clean laundry, and support for their hard-working spouses. Why should they be valued as lesser than someone who spends 18 hours of the day in an office?
That said, there’s a part of me that continues to romanticize the idea of freelancing as a career. Leaving the flat only when I want to, or I need more half-and-half or Johnny Walker Black. And maybe not even that, if I can move to a state that doesn’t have such strict laws regarding alcohol. Anyway, that in and of itself is going to involve some legwork, some networking, some time carved out around my current schedule to try and line up more work from various places to keep myself fed and housed.
I really can’t complain too much about my position at current, at least in terms of my specific dayjob as related to a certain skill set I possess. Everything I wrote about this morning is general, head-space stuff that would apply to any corporate gig. Nothing specific is wrong with my current situation in and of itself. I’m being deliberately vague. I hate doing that. But it’s a necessity of things like NDAs and not wanting to put my problems on other people when I can avoid it. Meh.
It’s been a long day. I only just now got in from the office and running by the store. Not literally running, of course. I don’t live that close to the office. Be kind of funny if I did, though. How would the days I suit up work, though? Would I have to strap a garment bag to my back? Roll up in my gym shorts and running shoes, then duck into the men’s or the VP’s office to change clothes? Not everybody likes me after a run. I tend to feel good, but apparently the sweat I generate is just too much for some.
Anyway, I’m home now, and I still have more ‘productivity’ ahead of me. Revisions to Cold Streets, freelance seeking, maybe even a first stab at some things for a new novel. Something, anything, to get me out of the creative ditch I’ve been in for roughly half a year. Maybe more. I really don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve seriously given up entire mornings or afternoons or evenings to what I really want to be doing with my life.
But I have to start somewhere. Or, more accurately, start over somewhere. I’m told it’s never too late to start over. I really hope that’s true.
Incidentally, the Friday 500 seems to be more stream-of-consciousness than anything, and I think that helps me. It almost feels Thompson-esque to write this way.
Don’t worry. If I start seeing phantom iguanas, or rambling about bat country, someone’s bound to call the cops. Or an agent.