When work isn't work

Imagine being on vacation, but having to work. It's not that hard to visualize. I think most of us have had a working vacation at some point. I for one never went home for Thanksgiving or Spring Break while in college without the building blocks of a project or the outline for a paper in tow. Now, I carry writing assignments along with me. On the surface, I find that irritating, not because of the writing itself, but because of the leg work I have to get out of the way before I actually get down to doing what I love. . .the writing.

I carted along two articles on my family vacation to Tennessee a few weeks ago. Thanks to decent time management skills and an extremely stressful pre-vacation week, the articles were finished before we departed and all I had to worry about on the trip was making minor changes as fact checks came back from the people I'd interviewed. However, that experience has shown me that most of my free time is spent writing, preparing to write, editing what I've already written, or figuring out who I can write for next. In other words, I leave one job and come home to another one. But it doesn't feel that way. Yes, there are days that I would rather go home and numb my mind over with several hours of television, and I'll admit that I've given into that temptation more than once (especially when there are Jon & Kate Plus 8 marathons). I have to let my mind rest at some point. But, it generally doesn't happen two days in a row, or really, more than once a week, because it is not what I love. It is not what truly relaxes me. My writing does, and I am not at peace at the end of the day unless I have contributed something to that part of my life. Whether I write a blog, edit a section of the book, write a new section, research an agent, tweak my query letters, or work on a current assignment for a magazine or other client, I have to do something writing related, every day, or I'm just not happy. It is my release, my touchstone.

I believe God wired me that way. I believe He wants me to be a writer more than I do at times (dee-ta-dee). He has blessed this part of my life more than I ever could have imagined. He must be in it, because new writers don't find the work I've found on their own right out of the shoot. He always planned it, and He chose for me to have various and sundry experiences along the way to train me for it, to develop relationships and skills that would help me build this career. When I look back on all He has put in place, all He has allowed, I am overwhelmed by His awesome ability, His goodness, and His plan.

I know this is Him. When I am discouraged, something always happens to encourage me. For example, while on vacation, we stayed with my aunt and uncle in Mississippi and visited their church. I spoke to their pastor and pastor's wife about my book briefly a few months ago when they were here for my cousin's wedding, but have thought little about the conversation since then. I wouldn't say I was down about the book when I left on the trip, but it had been put on the back burner, and let's face it - getting fiction published is never easy. At the close of the Sunday evening service we were a part of, the pastor of this church stood before his congregation and praised my writing work and expressed how excited he and his wife were about my upcoming book. Prior to that, his wife had asked me about the progress and requested a copy. Those two experiences catapulted me back into the publishing endeavor. I was reminded that I am capable, that I am doing more than most attempt to do, and most importantly, that God has blessed me with a talent and I have to do all that I can to ensure He receives glory from it.

When I am lazy, something always comes along to motivate me. I will be in the middle of a lethargic and pitiful Saturday afternoon, watching a worthless movie I've seen 15 times, and all of a sudden a writer character will be introduced, or a scene will call to mind the quintessential writer's life. I am always imagining a cabin tucked in the mountains, or a cottage on the beach, some kind of retreat where I will stay while writing my 21st best seller. No matter the place, I am always in a sweater, with a cup of coffee, and I own a Grand Waggoneer. This is MY vision. Don't judge me! The point is, while I'm watching a movie or TV, or reading a book, a subtle, unexpected motivator always creeps in and I am reminded that "there is no someday." And, the cherry on top is: when I finally turn off the TV and put my butt in the chair, the chair I'm sitting in right now, I have a lot more fun and am far more relaxed than I was doing the other fruitless activity.

Socks Revisited

Check the archives for a post titled "Let's talk about Socks, baby." It's a story about my formerly not feline friendly grandparents and their cat, Socks. There have been many experiences with Socks since that blog was posted. . .let's see. . .a little more than two years ago, but today was just one of those special moments I feel deserves extra attention, plus my Uncle Nolan will get a laugh out of it.

I worked my brain out this week and by about three o'clock today I was ready for a break. I stay in town on Wednesdays for church in the evening, so I took an hour or so off and went to my grandparent's house. Now, if you read the aforementioned post, you know that some time ago family was redirected to the front door of the house when our traditional side entrance was overhauled to become Socks' fully heated and air-conditioned bachelor pad. We've mostly grown used to this, but every now and then, we are thrown a curve ball.

For starters, it was 600 degrees today and I drive a black car with black leather interior. I was hot. I park on the street at their house, so by the time I reached the front yard, debated whether or not to take the beloved, but terrifying ramp (which has been repaired and appears much safer, as long as it's not raining), and arrived at the front door, I was just shy of heat stroke. (I'm exaggerating of course, but my point is, I was ready to get inside.) I turn the knob of the door, which for most of my life has been unlocked during daylight hours, only to find it locked. I crane my neck around the corner of the house to see if the car is in place. It is. I wait. I ponder. Socks.

Soon I hear rustling about on the other side of the door and the blinds are pulled up. The stern and suspicious face of my grandfather stares out at me. I'm certain he has no idea who I am for a full 30 seconds, but finally yells through the window: "Come in through the side door!"

Confusion.

Mixed signals.

I retreat from the front door, walk down the ramp, trek through the yard, and endure the 600 degree heat a little longer. I ascend the steps to the side door, which used to be a screen door, but is now a solid, dead-bolted security door marking the entrance to Socks' crib. I attempt to enter, but again find it locked. I just want to visit my grandparents!!! Why won't they let me in!!! I went to the front door, because I'm not supposed to go to the side door ANY MORE!! Then I was told to go to the side door, but it is LOCKED!!! What am I supposed to do?!!!

Desperation. Heat taking its toll. Need water. . .

I hear the patter of my grandfather's feet and a moment later he opens the door for me and offers a hug. He then closes the outer door before I can open the interior door leading into the house, where Socks is lazing about. It's a very sophisticated, complex security system my grandparents have concocted to completely and totally ensure there is no chance of escape.

I finally made it into the inner-sanctum and enjoyed a nice visit with my grandparents, during which Socks went out to his apartment. After a while I got ready to leave. I said my goodbyes and approached the side door that I entered through. As my hand reaches for the knob, I am quickly redirected to the front door. . .???. . .!!! You mean the door I originally tried to use?

You know when you get in trouble as a child and your parents tell you to "shut your mouth" but then you get in trouble for not answering their next question? This was a similar experience. I no longer know what door to use. I have a college degree, am a nationally published writer, and am responsible for educating people's children, but I do not know what door to enter and exit through at a house I have been in and out of my entire life.

I suppose next time I'll try the back door, or perhaps a cracked window. There used to be a weak spot in the floor between the living room and dining room. Maybe, with the right tools and one of those hard hats with a light attached, I could burrow into the house from underneath.

P.S. I love and respect my grandparents and consider them wise and faithful people. I also know their love for me is unconditional, and I have drawn on that knowledge many times when I felt the rest of the world had turned against me. Despite my jokes, Socks is their companion during the day. My life does not allow me to be with my grandparents every day, but Socks provides entertainment and makes them feel needed, and for that I am grateful to him.

Lock your doors! Hide your SAT scores!

Welcome to the Socialist States of America!! I've been awake less than an hour and my distaste for the direction of our nation is freshly and fully renewed. Why, I ask, are thousands of GM dealers across this country losing their life's work? More importantly, why are the whiny, often-lazy, manipulative unionized laborers that the hard work of these very dealers has supported for three decades keeping their employment and benefits, and blood-sucking unions? Trust me, the inflated and ridiculous demands of unions had everything to do with GM going under. Dealers working seven days a week to move and sell the consequently over-priced, non-competitive end product were not the problem. This perplexes me, yet I think I've found the answer: Unions were one of the first (for lack of a better term) stupid steps toward socialism, so it's only natural for the idiots in power to preserve these entities. I mean, it would be counterproductive to harm the foundation of the welfare-state structure. Conversely, the dealers are actually self-made people, with a little bit of personal wealth, and hey(!) ambition and intelligence, and their kind simply won't fit in with the new and better, "changed" America.

I had this revelation, and then started thinking like Big Brother. Two men laid off in Knoxville were on the news this morning. They lost their jobs, but instead of kicking back in the recliner and living off tax dollars for a few months, the very day they lost their jobs, they started a new business. Ironically, this business makes money by cleaning up foreclosed homes for resale. Bet the government didn't see that one coming!! HA!! Nevertheless, this action again shows the men to be self-sufficient, and therefore, not ideal for citizenship in our new and changed states.

I was discussing IQ scores with people yesterday and it occurred to me: If you've got a score higher than 110, you'll want to keep it under wraps. Better yet, hook yourself up to the toaster and see if you can shave off a few points. You don't want to appear too smart these days, it may soon be considered treason.