Charlotte and Danny

Sure, there’s a boatload of work to do. Billable work, administrative work (such as sending bills, which is the happiest part of billable work), book work (editing), other book work (back cover copy), still more book work (including sending advance reader copies (ARCs) to authors who have generously agreed to blurb), housework, yard work (I literally have not weeded any of the gardens all summer), and errands.

This past weekend, I did practically none of it.

I did edit, because I’m at the point where I can’t keep my hands off the manuscript. One of my beta readers sent his comments last week, so I spent part of Saturday reviewing and incorporating his suggestions. I wasn’t planning to spend very long, but then I looked at the clock and it was 9:38 p.m. and none of us—not the cats, and not me—had had dinner.

But other than that, I took it easy. I’d planned to accomplish things—cleaning the house, organizing the office, folding clothes and putting them away. Instead, I napped. I zoned out on reruns of Friends. When the rain started on Saturday afternoon, I sat on the screened-in porch, drinking iced tea and enjoying the tapping of raindrops on the roof, the rustle of leaves disturbed by the rain, the comparative coolness after some hot summer days, the slight fragrance of wet woods, the way being wet enhances the greenness, the sense of security that comes of being dry when all around me is soggy.

One of the best things about this past weekend is how dramatically it contrasted with the one before, where I worked all day, both days. I’d been hired a week before for a rush project, and the deadline was pounding at the door. Last week’s pace was slightly slower, but Friday was spent working remotely, i.e., at Mom’s while her HVAC guys replaced the air conditioning and heating units, which meant a fair bit of juggling around that.

But the weekend . . . (blissful sigh)

After my appendectomy in June, the discharge instructions stated that I was not to lift anything weighing more than five pounds for six weeks. So when I called the surgeon’s office to make my follow-up appointment, I asked how serious they were about that. “I can’t even lift a cat,” I pointed out. The young woman in the surgeon’s office assured me that the world wouldn’t end if I were to pick up a ten-pound cat. “Listen to your body,” she said, which has turned out to be sound advice in other parts of my life, not just post-operative care.

It’s Monday now, with all that means. Laundry needs to move from washer to dryer. Ned’s appetite stimulant is suddenly working furiously so that he’s constantly meowing for more food (and has been since 7:00 a.m., despite having been fed several times). More deadlines loom this week. Calls need to be returned, payment records require updating, ARCs must be sent out, errands demand to be done. A dinner date was rescheduled, the void quickly filling with other tasks. Life as usual.

Yet somehow, after a restful weekend, it doesn’t feel so overwhelming.