“Do you even know what a holiday is?”
Confession time. I’ve just come back to the UK from a couple weeks in Malta. The Boy and I are hoping to move there soon, and so, even with work deadlines approaching, we decided to fly out and see whether we could sort out our accommodations and get the ball rolling.
To be fair, we both had to work for most of our time there, but there were at least a couple days that we’d put aside for proper holiday time. Even then, the Boy would find me on my laptop late at night, writing, editing, proofreading after coming home from the beach — or worse, sitting in the sun, scribbling down novel notes on the beach itself.
As far as I’m concerned, “A holiday is a block of time when you put aside the things that are urgent in order to focus on the things that are important.”
The Boy tells me that my definition isn’t exactly universal.
Fair enough, but I’ve never been comfortable enough to simply stake out a block of time for… what, exactly? I can’t imagine a holiday where I’d do nothing; my default is always to be writing, writing, writing — until I get too tired to form proper sentences, at which point I switch over to reading.
So yes, even on holiday, I was focusing on making progress with the current project: my first foray into adult fantasy and (judging by my current wordcount) my first truly epic novel. It’ll take a lot more holidays before I manage to finish the first draft, but to be honest, I’m rather enjoying the work.
And maybe that’s all that matters.