Long Weekends and My Other Life

A long time ago my college tested us students so we would know what professions to pursue. I scored highest in law and social work and lowest in dietitian and home economics teacher. Since I spent awhile yesterday looking for photos of me preparing Thanksgiving meals or even me in the kitchen and found a total of three, one of which I posted yesterday, the other two which follow, I must admit the test may have been at least partially true.

A thousand years ago visiting "The Old Place" before mom and dad stopped farming. Sitting on the woodbox smoking a cigarette. Must admit it was pleasurable.

A thousand years ago visiting “The Old Place” before mom and dad stopped farming. Sitting on the woodbox next to the kitchen stove smoking a cigarette. Must admit it was pleasurable. 

Marsha and me. We are in the kitchen...if only to get the ice cream out of the freezer.

Marsha and me. We are in the kitchen…if only to get the ice cream out of the freezer.

 However I did not become a lawyer either; I did become a social worker but didn’t  like it. Forget that test. Writing is what I do. Not great writing. Not salable writing. Not silly writing. Not bad writing either. Writing. It’s a job. Or anyway I want it to be. However I have one of those 40-hour week jobs already. One I like quite a lot. It is interesting, rewarding for me and actually has meaning for the community.

So then, that must be two jobs. Most of my life has been taken up with two or even three jobs at a time so I’m mostly okay with that. I’ve figured it out—early mornings, some evenings, most weekends for one, 8-5 for the other.

Trouble only arises when a long weekend comes along. I wait anxiously for it to arrive. I make lists that account for every potential writing hour. The evening before I shower, put out my best writing clothes (flannel pajamas for winter/cut-off flannel pajamas for summer), the coffeepot is ready to plug in for that fresh brewed smell and I sleep well.

Morning comes. I’m rested, a hot cuppa in my hand. I freeze…incapable of thinking words, sentences, paragraphs.  Instead I think about reorganizing the back porch, how the kitchen shelf needs reinforcement, there’s the Christmas list, old photos to organize for further restoration, unswept front porch, grocery list, light bulbs to replace….

So I’m pretty sure what proves I actually am a writer is that after those thoughts flit through my mind, even making it onto a list, I can actually sit down and write. Cheating a little here as this is my easy blog day and I’m putting off paying attention to that elusive book by writing a—well, yes, silly—morning blog post. Now to the computer to see how much of what I’ve written about my obsessive Norwegianness is actually usable for Part One of Up North.



About mneset

Writer, Traveler, Director/North Fourth Art Center

Posted on November 28, 2014, in Living LIFE and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

  1. I don’t think it matters how much you want or need to write…you write when you are ready. It does not flow until the spigot is turned on and it is not turned on by you, it is turned on by some unseen hand. Well, that is the way it is for me. But then again, I don’t do much writing, although I would like to


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