That's a lie. It's pretty easy. If by easy you mean no set schedule or formally defined expectations (benchmarks). However, over the course of this last year I have found that it is much more difficult to work for myself than anyone else. There are no clearly defined parameters, working hours, or evaluations. So, when you add the various dimensions of guilt I was raised with, it makes for a almost constant sense of failure, or fear of failure. So, maybe the livin' ain't so easy after all.
This summer has been quite good, actually. No real vacation trips planned this year, since we helped send our daughter to Spain. It didn't work out too well, she came back. I have been spending my days writing, remodeling my dining room, and playing music. I have discovered a similar neurosis in the writing and remodeling. I seem to be more comfortable with deconstruction than completion. I start in on a book chapter, and after several hours discover that I managed to tear apart what was already there and make it far more complicated than it was when I started. What was a simple, clean plot now has 17 fragments that will require advanced narrative geometric analysis to fit together. Likewise, my remodeling job was supposed to consist of opening a doorway between the kitchen and dining room, to create some flow and a more enjoyable space for our new dining room table. When I started, I wondered if I would be able to fit all the plaster and lath in our little trash bin. Several weeks later, I have delivered about 7,000 pounds of debris to the landfill, reinforced numerous wall studs, replaced ductwork and wiring, reinforced ceiling joists, completely rebuilt one wall and doorway, cut out and patched portions of the wood flooring, and replaced the french doors. I now have a much bigger set of fragments it may take an architect and contractor to put back together.
