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dragonlady7i had a steep falloff in productivity today. I did stuff, sure-- washed eggs, picked up baby chicks at the post office, cleaned stuff that didn't get properly put to rights after yesterday's chicken processing, made an elaborate lunch plus dessert-- but then in the afternoon I just fell down and didn't get up, and sat around the kitchen reading and writing and poking my computer and just-- not doing anything productive for the farm.
(I did pick at the solarpunk cyborgs novel. Gosh, I had so badly wanted to finish a novel before I turned 40. To be fair, though, I've finished several. I just wanted to do an original one.)
(Who am I kidding? It doesn't matter, it's goofy. But I can't stop working on them, so I might as well pick at them.)
I've devoured all the October Daye novels now, that my friend had, and am startled to realize there are like, four more. They take me about two hours to get through, so. I wasn't that into it, but persistence and familiarity have worn me down enough that I would like very much to devour the rest of them now kthx. Sigh... no, I have other things to do.
There was an almighty thunderstorm today that flooded some parts of the farm. I haven't been out to the yurt. The water was already high in the creek and now it's roaring so loud I can't hear much else in the kitchen. The picking garden is under two feet of water at least, which means everything edible in it is a total loss-- just for sanitary reasons, you can't trust anything that's been flooded. Very sad. At least the perennials out front are still good, which means i can still make mint-sage tea, but the basil, the cilantro, the cherry tomatoes, the huskcherries, the dill and borage and marjoram and summer savory, all the annuals--
A lot of what's in there is flowers, though, so at least those are still useful as long as nobody eats their bouquets. The sunflowers hung their heads over it all and looked forlorn throughout, and they're still there watching as the water slowly sinks.
I couldn't get myself together to make dinner, even though everyone else was busy. My sister was a little cross about it, but I was like, listen, your husband came in at 4 and was eating pizza leftovers, your kid's not here, there's a fridge full of leftovers, and I'm plumb out of notions; if you wanted me to make dinner, you'd have to have said so, I'm eating leftovers. So she did the same. The fridge is so full we can't cram anything else into it, I don't want to add to it. Sorry I didn't step up, but.
It really sort of slammed home to me, as I sat there this evening, that this isn't really my life. I mean, it's not my farm, I'm just hanging around being useful because there's nowhere else I can be more useful. Which is how most people live their lives, but.
I don't have dreams of my own, except writing, and I've long since accepted that writing is something I just have to cram into the cracks of the rest of my life. It's kept me from filling the rest of my life with the kinds of things other people have-- kids, a real career, ambitions, a house people can live in, nice things-- because I needed those cracks to stay big enough to fit the writing into them.
And that's how I'm going to live for the rest of my life. I can't do writing full-time, because it's not a job and even if I devote more time to it, I won't get any more done. My brainweasels won't let me, I am compelled to do housework and other gapfillers and conform more closely to what people expect.
I do the same thing at my job. I hang around, I write when nobody's looking, I mark time. I've stopped expecting more; I get raises so that I stay above minimum, it's been twelve years, there will never be more than that-- working harder doesn't even get you a thanks, so I work less hard, I get more writing done, I look busy enough that no one asks, and I make no efforts. Working hard for some rich man is pointless. Working hard for someone else's farming dream is at least diverting, but sometimes it gets old.
I'm in a fine mood, and much recovered from how tired I was yesterday. (It helps that I broke down and dug out slippers to shove my work boot insoles into; i cannot stand barefoot in the kitchen, it cripples me slowly by minutes. No bare feet for more than ten steps, ever. Insoles, always. Alas, middle age.) I'm going to go to bed early and sit and work more on some novel or other, it doesn't matter which one, and that's fine.
I'm not ever going to earn a living by writing, I'm never going to feel like it's anything but an indulgence, but that doesn't matter; I do it because I have to, always, and I've been doing it more or less nonstop for just about thirty years now, and I have little enough to show for it, but I do have .000000004% of a Hugo, and that's something, after all these years.
I would like to at least get something done enough that I can self-publish it, though, because then maybe I could convince myself that it's at least as worthwhile a use of my time as doing other people's household chores.
(I did pick at the solarpunk cyborgs novel. Gosh, I had so badly wanted to finish a novel before I turned 40. To be fair, though, I've finished several. I just wanted to do an original one.)
(Who am I kidding? It doesn't matter, it's goofy. But I can't stop working on them, so I might as well pick at them.)
I've devoured all the October Daye novels now, that my friend had, and am startled to realize there are like, four more. They take me about two hours to get through, so. I wasn't that into it, but persistence and familiarity have worn me down enough that I would like very much to devour the rest of them now kthx. Sigh... no, I have other things to do.
There was an almighty thunderstorm today that flooded some parts of the farm. I haven't been out to the yurt. The water was already high in the creek and now it's roaring so loud I can't hear much else in the kitchen. The picking garden is under two feet of water at least, which means everything edible in it is a total loss-- just for sanitary reasons, you can't trust anything that's been flooded. Very sad. At least the perennials out front are still good, which means i can still make mint-sage tea, but the basil, the cilantro, the cherry tomatoes, the huskcherries, the dill and borage and marjoram and summer savory, all the annuals--
A lot of what's in there is flowers, though, so at least those are still useful as long as nobody eats their bouquets. The sunflowers hung their heads over it all and looked forlorn throughout, and they're still there watching as the water slowly sinks.
I couldn't get myself together to make dinner, even though everyone else was busy. My sister was a little cross about it, but I was like, listen, your husband came in at 4 and was eating pizza leftovers, your kid's not here, there's a fridge full of leftovers, and I'm plumb out of notions; if you wanted me to make dinner, you'd have to have said so, I'm eating leftovers. So she did the same. The fridge is so full we can't cram anything else into it, I don't want to add to it. Sorry I didn't step up, but.
It really sort of slammed home to me, as I sat there this evening, that this isn't really my life. I mean, it's not my farm, I'm just hanging around being useful because there's nowhere else I can be more useful. Which is how most people live their lives, but.
I don't have dreams of my own, except writing, and I've long since accepted that writing is something I just have to cram into the cracks of the rest of my life. It's kept me from filling the rest of my life with the kinds of things other people have-- kids, a real career, ambitions, a house people can live in, nice things-- because I needed those cracks to stay big enough to fit the writing into them.
And that's how I'm going to live for the rest of my life. I can't do writing full-time, because it's not a job and even if I devote more time to it, I won't get any more done. My brainweasels won't let me, I am compelled to do housework and other gapfillers and conform more closely to what people expect.
I do the same thing at my job. I hang around, I write when nobody's looking, I mark time. I've stopped expecting more; I get raises so that I stay above minimum, it's been twelve years, there will never be more than that-- working harder doesn't even get you a thanks, so I work less hard, I get more writing done, I look busy enough that no one asks, and I make no efforts. Working hard for some rich man is pointless. Working hard for someone else's farming dream is at least diverting, but sometimes it gets old.
I'm in a fine mood, and much recovered from how tired I was yesterday. (It helps that I broke down and dug out slippers to shove my work boot insoles into; i cannot stand barefoot in the kitchen, it cripples me slowly by minutes. No bare feet for more than ten steps, ever. Insoles, always. Alas, middle age.) I'm going to go to bed early and sit and work more on some novel or other, it doesn't matter which one, and that's fine.
I'm not ever going to earn a living by writing, I'm never going to feel like it's anything but an indulgence, but that doesn't matter; I do it because I have to, always, and I've been doing it more or less nonstop for just about thirty years now, and I have little enough to show for it, but I do have .000000004% of a Hugo, and that's something, after all these years.
I would like to at least get something done enough that I can self-publish it, though, because then maybe I could convince myself that it's at least as worthwhile a use of my time as doing other people's household chores.
