The Difference

Here is something new (for me):

I totally like writing. I totally want to write. I will turn down invitations and turn off the TV and put my butt in a chair somewhere and forget what time it is (so long as there is coffee in my cup and food in my belly, that is).

It's never happened before. It was always a topic that was a compromise between my interests and someone else's, I had a deadline that made my heart twist in my chest, or I had nine other things pulling at my brain in nine or more directions.

But now: I get to work on my own idiosyncratic, made-to-suit floral freakshow, the deadline is a year or two off (too far away for my may-fly sense of time to grasp), and all I have to think about is getting to BRU to work on time and which cafe to park my ass in so I can write about flowers and ladies.

I'm trying to mark the wondrous phenomenon and savor it to the last drop. Summer will end and I'll have to add the teaching to the mix again, with all its begging/whining emails, office hours, conferencing, grading, planning, and other general time suckage. (I really do like teaching, but it sure puts a kink or two in the dayplanner...) Though I have to work, this is as close to being a gentlewoman scholar as I'm ever going to get. Unless, that is, I start laying down the dollars and picking the numbers.