Guilt Assuaged

It's been two very busy work weeks for me. My best work days are usually only six or so hours long, leaving time at the beginning and end for the very important tasks of writing and blogging and finding new NON authors and exercising. These last two weeks, I worked every single day but one. I didn't write. I didn't blog. I only did minimal upkeep on NON. On days when I had prior engagements, I squeezed in working around it. On days when I didn't, I worked at least nine hours—longer if I could still see the computer screen and thought I was still able to perform my job with some sense of quality.

I can hear the immense lack of sympathy now from the majority of people out there who work a minimum of eight hours every day. I hear that derisive voice in my own head, telling me I should push more and harder and embrace the Puritanical work ethic alongside everyone else in this county. I've felt my share of guilt over the matter, too. On days when I work (paid) for only four or six hours, I envision how much more I could make a year if I were to push myself and work a schedule similar to what I did these last two weeks.

I've done that schedule full time before. It's not fun. My value structure doesn't support a workaholic lifestyle, especially at a job that is not furthering my writing career. I become increasingly unhappy and dissatisfied. Ask me to work the weekends on top of overtime during the week, and I'm a grumpy girl.

But short pushes like this one I don't mind, for a few reasons. One, the paycheck is going to be nice. Two, and more importantly, it reminded me why I choose not to be a workaholic for the majority of the year. I value all the other time so much more. When I have to work so much that I've cut out writing time, it defeats the purpose. When I am working so much that I backburner querying, my focus is skewed away from my goals. When I'm working so much that I don't even feel like reading a novel when I finish the day, that's just plain crazy.

Yet, I proved to myself that I could do it. That small voice in my head that taunts me with thoughts of not being able to work the hours necessary to meet future deadlines with writing projects (you know, when I make it big as a published author) has been quieted. I can do it. I can sit at this desk for hours on end and work.

And I know for sure that if all that time had been spent on writing and editing my novels, I probably wouldn't have noticed how long I was working.