I’ve always scoffed at the idea of being a workaholic. When I leave the office of my day job, I may have lingering thoughts about to-dos, but I’ve always maintained a clear line between work and life.
These days though, my “off” time—aka writing time—is getting just as bogged down as my work time. At any given moment, I’m probably telling myself that I must:
- complete this character sketch.
- write this blog post.
- edit this short story for a competition.
- keep up to date with the writing industry by reading this magazine.
- research writing by getting through my pile of to-read books, and then read some more.
- make connections through Twitter and Facebook.
- prep and practice my next Toastmasters speech.
- figure out financial aid for my Master of Fine Arts. (And where will I say for the summer residency in Vancouver? Must book that too.)
This, on top of paying attention to my family and maintaining my house and doing the million other things that make up a life.
Then I think ahead to the wonderful but time-consuming tasks that may be taking place in the future: edits from a publisher for my young adult novel, assignments for my MFA classes. When the time comes, something will have to drop—and I don’t mean even more sleep.
So why do all this? Why place these self-imposed demands? Because I love it. Because I’m taking the necessary steps toward success. Because without this drive, sure I’d be relaxed, but I’d also be restless and unsatisfied.
So bring it on; I guess I’m a workaholic after all.