I’m not a full-time writer. Maybe one day, but for now, the need to earn means fitting in writing around work. I know I’m not alone in this, having met many authors who fit writing into their lunch breaks between demanding full-time jobs, or late at night when children go to bed, so I’m grateful I only work part time at present. Part time work means once the freelance work is done, bills are paid, and the house is tidy (I’m one of those people who needs order), I have time to write. At least, that’s the plan.
This past week was not a week where things go to plan writing-wise. Work was more demanding than usual, with a 10-day dance festival meaning extra hours and coming home exhausted from dealing with people all day. Get up early to write? Not a chance. Stay up late to write? As if. Not even reading excited me, which shows how much the festival drained me. One night I set aside two books, unable to make inroads into them, and sought an old favourite: A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Sigh. I love that book.
But… I did do a little writing. A couple of micro poems while ushering people in and out of the theatre, and some notes for my work in progress. I wrote another chapter of my novel on Friday morning before an evening shift at the festival.
Your siren call
teases my empty mind:
I dare you.
Not a lot of time for photos either, but here are a few that I played around with. The red theme was coincidental. The first two are close-ups of a 95+ year old gramophone (and record) that sits in my house.