Saturday night is the last time I’ll have to read from Too Darn Hot. The last time I’ll have to perform. Yes, I know I’m lucky to have a venue, etc. Still I don’t like to do these things as those of you who’ve kept up with this blog know.
I don’t want to spend this week wishing time away, but I find myself thinking things like by this time next Tuesday it’ll all be over. I promised not to go on about this until the day before and of, so I won’t.
The other thing I’ve been feeling is I like living the life of doing nothing. There’s a big part of me that doesn’t want to go back to writing after Labor Day. But writers don’t retire. Sometimes they stop. Or I think they’ve stopped because I don’t know that they can’t get published anymore. Others stop because of writer’s block. And, yes, there is such a thing. But do writers stop because they don’t feel like writing? Especially the ones who have no other job? No other income? And no interest or qualifications for another career? I don’t know.
Stopping isn’t really an option for me. And I’m sure I couldn’t do it anyway. It’s my life. I’ve never done anything else. Don’t want to. I’m a writer. Yes, it’s my identity. Boring groups of people say you shouldn’t let your work define you. Too bad. I do and always have. Therefore, if I stopped writing I’d have no identity. Oh, I guess that’s why the boring groups say you shouldn’t let your work define you. Still, it does. Too late to change that now. I could probably get away with a few years of not writing and still call myself a writer. But I don’t have a whole lot of years left to play around with.
And then there’s that damn twentieth novel. I have nineteen published novels and I promised myself I’d have at least twenty before I bit the dust. So even though I don’t feel like it, and may not feel like it in September, I’ll most likely hit the keys once more.