Mmmmm. Strawberries. Strawberries almost as big as my fist. Yummy delicious strawberries. :)
I like it when strawberries are on sale. Of course, they're supposed to be for this weekend, so I only ate three. But still. I did get two pounds, after all.
I'm going camping this weekend. I'm ambivalent about camping. I mean, I see the point if you live in a city and can't get out in the woods usually, but I grew up in nature, I suppose. It just seems like an awful lot of effort to hook up your camper to electricity and... I don't know. I can't really see the point. I mean, my inlaws camp ten minutes away from their house sometimes. To me, camping is roughing it. In a tent. With no showers and running water. No civilization, even. I guess I just don't understand. :)
I am also bringing the Visor, of course, because what would a vacation be without getting my usual amount of writing done anyway?
Vacation to me is not having to do other things, of course. Doesn't everyone think that way? You are talking to the person who had a vision of the end of Second Coming while on her honeymoon, after all... and who wrote the day she got married... and will probably write the day she dies.
Speaking of dying...
On September 11, after they let us all go home early, after the terrorist attacks, I thought about all the people who died. All the people trapped in the buildings who did not die right away, but had to have known they were going to die soon. And I thought to myself, "When I die, I don't want to be stuck in a dead-end job going nowhere fast. I want to be doing something I love for a living, not counting the minutes until 4:30 or 5:00 and quitting time." Meaning, if by some chance a plane had hit my building while I was inside it, I would have hated to have been remembered as "Jennifer St. Clair Bush, Office Assistant." Of course, I would be dead and in the cosmic swing of things that wouldn't really matter, but I bet I'd know anyway.
So. That's the reason why no one can pay me enough money to enjoy a day job. That the only day job I will be happy at will be the one where I am my own boss and I set my own hours and lead my own destiny. Where my writing pays the bills and things are good because I am happy with my career. That's what I want. A career. Not one that a college degree would give me, but one I made myself, with no one else's help.
I lost track of that a little bit there, with the ebay orgies and everything else that has gone on over the months since September 11th. I think I've remembered that again now, but it took me a little while to decide if I still wanted to pursue it. And in the end, I had to say yes.
Over in one of the sff.net newsgroups I lurk in, the owner of the newsgroup posted a long message about goals and successes. I was so intrigued by the exercise that I copied everything down, and for the past three days I've been examining and writing down my various goals. I might end up posting them here, I might not. We will see once I'm finished with them.
But one thing I know; my end-result goal has not changed. And that makes me happy.
More later, perhaps.
I like it when strawberries are on sale. Of course, they're supposed to be for this weekend, so I only ate three. But still. I did get two pounds, after all.
I'm going camping this weekend. I'm ambivalent about camping. I mean, I see the point if you live in a city and can't get out in the woods usually, but I grew up in nature, I suppose. It just seems like an awful lot of effort to hook up your camper to electricity and... I don't know. I can't really see the point. I mean, my inlaws camp ten minutes away from their house sometimes. To me, camping is roughing it. In a tent. With no showers and running water. No civilization, even. I guess I just don't understand. :)
I am also bringing the Visor, of course, because what would a vacation be without getting my usual amount of writing done anyway?
Vacation to me is not having to do other things, of course. Doesn't everyone think that way? You are talking to the person who had a vision of the end of Second Coming while on her honeymoon, after all... and who wrote the day she got married... and will probably write the day she dies.
Speaking of dying...
On September 11, after they let us all go home early, after the terrorist attacks, I thought about all the people who died. All the people trapped in the buildings who did not die right away, but had to have known they were going to die soon. And I thought to myself, "When I die, I don't want to be stuck in a dead-end job going nowhere fast. I want to be doing something I love for a living, not counting the minutes until 4:30 or 5:00 and quitting time." Meaning, if by some chance a plane had hit my building while I was inside it, I would have hated to have been remembered as "Jennifer St. Clair Bush, Office Assistant." Of course, I would be dead and in the cosmic swing of things that wouldn't really matter, but I bet I'd know anyway.
So. That's the reason why no one can pay me enough money to enjoy a day job. That the only day job I will be happy at will be the one where I am my own boss and I set my own hours and lead my own destiny. Where my writing pays the bills and things are good because I am happy with my career. That's what I want. A career. Not one that a college degree would give me, but one I made myself, with no one else's help.
I lost track of that a little bit there, with the ebay orgies and everything else that has gone on over the months since September 11th. I think I've remembered that again now, but it took me a little while to decide if I still wanted to pursue it. And in the end, I had to say yes.
Over in one of the sff.net newsgroups I lurk in, the owner of the newsgroup posted a long message about goals and successes. I was so intrigued by the exercise that I copied everything down, and for the past three days I've been examining and writing down my various goals. I might end up posting them here, I might not. We will see once I'm finished with them.
But one thing I know; my end-result goal has not changed. And that makes me happy.
More later, perhaps.
Comments