The Scribble Pad
The mental meanderings of a slightly loose screw.
JULY 08
Saturday July 26 - Time is money
Know what the worst thing so far about working for yourself is? Apart from that pesky no salary bit, of course. It's not knowing what to do with your time.
By that, I don't mean not having anything to do with your time; I'm probably busier now than I was in corporate life. I mean not knowing when to put down the work and take time for me.
When you begin to calculate your worth by the hour, things start to get sticky. My father used to say "time is money", and he was right. Knowing that, there's always something at the back of my mind, a little ticker tape counting out the minute-to-dollar ratio of time I spend reading a magazine, or drooling in front of the TV. Something whispers to me, why aren't you working on that proofreading job? Why aren't you out there looking for work?
And I know that I've got to find a balance, a point where I draw the line between earning time and leisure time. I'm just not at that point yet.
Thursday July 11 - Old friends
Had one of those awful, multi-character, multi-scene dreams that just go on and on like a soap opera, in which I dreamed my father had died. I woke up in the middle of the night and thought, "That was awful! Thank God I was only dreaming!" Then I remembered...oh...okay...
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I've decided to blow away the cobwebs of my mind by cleaning out my study. This semi-annual event is not as easy as it sounds, given that I have several hundred books that each needs to be taken down, wiped with a damp cloth and laid out on my table to dry for several hours to keep them from getting mouldy. So day after day, night after night, I haul out armloads of books and wipe them up like babies' bottoms.
Each time, I re-discover old treasures, like a dictionary of phrases that my grandfather won as a school prize in 1925, or a How-To book that belonged to his father. And each time, I re-discover books that I know I'll never use again, but which I hang onto because...well, they're old friends. You don't just spit out old friends, do you?
Friday July 4 - Whispers
I don't know if I've ever told you guys this -- probably for fear of having a nice white wagon pull up at my door -- but I've always thought of books as sentient beings, with souls. They get their feelings hurt when you neglect them, and sometimes they enjoy having me around as much as I enjoy their company. And I've always thought they have voices.
Sometimes I go into bookstores and am so overwhelmed by the rush of whispers around me that I get giddy, and get the hell out of there. It's a beautiful sound, mysterious and otherworldly, like being in Narnia and hearing voices in the forest, but sometimes it's too much to take.
This week, twice in two days, I ventured into bookstores...and started tearing up when I saw the Kimani rack. And my own book was there...and even though it was on the bottom rack I didn't have the heart to reshelve it higher as I usually do. I just couldn't face her. I feel like I've failed Rita, and Kendra and Shani, and all my girls who may or may never see the light of day.
And the whispers started up all around me, the book whispers, and I felt as if every book in the store was condemning me, calling me a screwup.
And yeah, I ran away again. Coward.
