If I could put half as much energy into my writing as I am forced to put into my day job, I’d have a novel published in no time at all.
Let me be petulant for a moment: It’s not fair.
I make pretty decent money and get to safe enough for it to be worthwhile. And whilst there is a certain job satisfaction in the knowledge that I’m good at what I’m doing, which gets acknowledged regularly, it’s not half as fulfilling as writing my blog for half an hour every night. Or prepare tomorrow’s or get started on other thoughts for another time.
It doesn’t compare.
Right now my day job is also somewhat demanding and busy and if I’m working the occasional Saturday as well, I am stretched pretty thin. I know this is only temporary and the thought of working on my savings is a good motivation, but that petulant little voice is quite adamant when I’m feeling slightly moody, because I’m just tired.
I’m not complaining. I’d hate to complain, because that just means I’m not doing anything about something that annoys me, when it would be entirely up to me to change it. People, who complain, are not actually powerless to effect change, they just can’t be bothered.
All I am saying is that I have my limits and if I am not careful, I am approaching them too fast and when I get to the point where I can’t push any further, I’ll burn out.
I’m not there, not by far (though I’m close to throttling some people at work), but I also have no intention of letting it get that far. What with work/life balance and all.
The irony is, if you do something you truly love, you can do it for twelve hours a day and never complain for a second. You’ll be tired at the end of the day, but it’ll be a good kind of tired.
At least I know I’m working to get there. I’m not idle, I’m not procrastinating. I’m continuously working on what I love.