Sunday

Sundays I am supposed to dedicate myself to writing. Working full-time, it's difficult to find time for my varied interests, so this is a way of making time - both for my sanity and for my boyfriend/ partner/ whatnot's, because he is the one who gets to hear the whining and bitching.

Tuesday and Thursday nights he works late, so I have our studio apartment to myself until 10pm. Perfect time for projects, right? Kind of. I find sitting all day in front of a computer trying to focus on little glowing lines rather tiring, so the most I do on Tuesdays and Thursdays is knit or read. If I'm lucky, spew the occasional idea in the form of notes.

Saturday my boyfriend/ partner/ whatnot works from early in the morning until 6pm. Perfect time for projects, right? Oh, wait, there's this little matter of errands to run, and that this is the only day of the week I can do them, because everything is closed (or closes uncomfortably early) on Sunday. Also, after working all week, I feel a bit spastic when I finally get a free day, kind of like a cat let out of a bag. So on Saturday I buy things I need and/or want, watch DVD's, knit, clean the apartment, generally run around like a fool, exhausting myself. Not much room for writing in all that.

So Sunday. The Chosen Day. My boyfriend/ partner/ whatnot is usually out of the apartment by about noon. He is a workaholic, so he usually goes to school to work on a side project, but if he doesn't show signs of leaving early, I start to give him subtle hints that his presence is not needed. (Did I mention it's a studio apartment? 250 sq. ft.? And I pay the rent? Do I even need to?) He doesn't come back until evening, when it might be safe.

Today is Sunday. What am I doing? I went and ate an egg and cheese on a fried crossaint in the Paul Revere Mall with my boyfriend/ partner/ whatnot, which I really shouldn't have done. I should have sent him out first thing so that I could have the apartment to myself and get to work. But I am weak in the morning (witness the sticky buns) and he paid. He eventually left me to myself so that I might get down to some serious industriousness.

I have washed the dishes. I finished an entire square of the Neapolitan Ice Cream Flower Afghan (which is going to made of 20 large squares of 9 smaller squares, sewn together) and The Red House Mystery, which I highly recommend to anyone who likes British Country House 1920's mysteries with witty banter. (After reading this, I wish Milne had written a long mystery series, to tell the truth.) I'm washing the Fugly Socks. I am doing a million little household chores. With the exception of this blog entry, I am not writing. Maybe this is a warm-up. Maybe.

I'm thinking about writing more knitting-oriented shorts. I'm thinking about other humorous stuff to write, and that damn novel I've been working on since forever, and audiences. I'm also considering posting shorts like the poker scene in the evenings on Sundays as a motivator. I wrote that short as a tool to loosen myself up. I am incredibly uptight about writing, I never seem to finish a damn thing. Doing something for fun, rather than, oh, say, artistic expression, or some other conceit, is supposed to be a good ice breaker. Better than a soy White Russian, or a beer, because frankly, I write like hell when I'm drunk. And I mean that in the negative sense.

So maybe that's what I'll do. What you do you think?