He’s been lurking around the house and in the garden. At first I didn’t notice, the thefts were merely minutes here and there, but now glaring holes gape where time used to be.
Some days I wonder how I spent all that time before I discovered writing. This past week disappeared in the snap of a finger as I completed work on the second proof of Revelation. That was on the heels of a whirlwind that ate up weeks while I finished the latest draft of Redemption. Snippets of time evaporated over a half-finished press release, a draft email announcement and countless queries.
Last night I wandered around the gardens with a glass of wine in my hand and was distracted by their sorry state of neglect. I used to spend hours each day yanking weeds, deadheading, pruning or digging in compost. There’s no end of things to do in a garden. It was never a chore until writing pushed it out of the way.
The same can be said for projects around the house. A bolt of fabric I intended to make into deck cushions three years ago lingers out of sight in a closet. Water stains from a skylight leak that happened two years ago glare down at my writing perch.
Even the day-to-day stuff gets put off. The vacuum only comes out when I can write my name in the debris on the floor. Running out of underwear is the new gauge for when laundry gets done and it’s only the threat of a neighbour dropping by that gets me out of pyjamas. And don’t even get me started on cooking. That old passion of mine has taken a back seat right next to gardening.
Where did all the time go? How did my life get so busy? I used to be retired, or under-employed, as my friends like to remind me. Now I can’t remember what that felt like. It seems I’ve caught the full-on version of the writing bug. It has me in its grip and won’t let go. I really need to work on this thing called balance.
And on that note, I must go and kill me a weed, but I’ll be back.
What steals your time?