It’s mid-July, and I’ve been out of school for more than two and a half months. Initially, I was relieved not to have to wake up in time to get to class, to have my evenings to myself instead of devoting them to homework, to be able to read whatever I wanted in whatever time I felt like reading it. I like spare time, a whole hell of a lot–and I’ve had enough of it to read several books, go to the Vineyard a few times and screw off, and idle in my papasan chair to my little heart’s content.
But I’m ready now. I’m ready to have a purpose again; a reason to get up, and something that requires my attention in the insomniac hours after work. I’ve been vaguely inspired to write lately, but not enough to complete any work worthy of submitting to either a professor or a publisher–I’m in desperate need of deadlines. Similarly, I’m reading two books at the moment, but without a specific time frame in which they must be finished, I’m stagnating–either reading trash magazines or doing a whole lot of nothing instead of reading. It doesn’t help that my new tattoo prevents me from going to the beach and sunning myself silly with a good book.
I have another six or seven weeks until the semester begins, but I’m already looking forward to it with happy anticipation. There’s something about having to be in the heart of the city every day, with a mission to accomplish, that’s strangely addictive. I know that once I’m in the throes of it, I will resent the lack of spare time, but right now, I miss it. Each night I open my computer and stare blankly at its screen, wishing that I had something which needed to be accomplished with it. I have this fantastic new machine–the machine I should have bought in the beginning of last year when I realized my old computer was shitting the bed–but beyond this blog and the sporadic checking of email, it’s being sorely under-utilized. I even have a peaceful place in which to concentrate, with multiple porches on which I can hibernate and get my work done, only I don’t have any work to get done.
Theoretically, I should write anyway, but that’s not the way it works. I either have a deadline and an assignment, or I do not write anything other than this pathetically narcissistic blog. I wrote a page of a short story tonight (which I actually assigned to a friend and she hasn’t written because she’s having too much sex to bother writing, damn her), but as I only know the setting and a bare-bones idea of the character, that’s as far as I got. I’ve got all the time in the world to make love to these keys, but I’m totally blocked. In November when I’m waist-deep in required reading and a manic ball of collected stress, I’ll be brilliantly inspired and I’ll sacrifice even the tiniest bit of sleep in order to get the words on the page. Go figure.