Aha! I thought of what to discuss here, went to put it in the title, and saw I had already used it: Time Management. I’ve cleaned up my basement, all the white undershirts (don’t ask!) are clean, and I am able to keep the dining room table clear.

But I haven’t been able to carve out consistent time to write, except for when the Alpha Dog comes over for a writing date.

So the next step, besides ridding myself of my summer 10, is to write every other day, at least. A goal I think I can manage, if I reward myself sufficiently (”you can’t have a study break if you don’t study”).

Okay. Deep breath. Wish me luck.

So the second of the two fall weddings the Spouse and I had are done, and it’s finally cool enough for me to work in the basement. Plus my summer weight gain is driving me nuts, and I have to get back on track with writing and the gym.

I gotta stop futzing around, and get back to work.

That’s what I’m going to do now. After some coffee, natch.

So I came back from the New England Conference all fired up to write, and–there are boxes to unpack. And freelance work to be done. And did I mention the boxes?

What I have to do when I get a minute (ha! The irony!) is figure out where my time goes. Not here; this takes me all of about five minutes a day. Finding new Clive pix takes longer than writing my posts. I really want to start writing again, but I have to be focused and have a goal, or else it’s just meandering. So that’s my goal: Find a goal. Find time to write. Stop wringing my real and virtual hands over my lack of time.

Yeah, I’ll be getting right on that.

Most people deplore Mondays. Not me. The Sometimes Difficult Spouse is back to work, the Wants To Play Electronics Most Of His Waking Moments Son is at school, and I am home alone. Bliss. I really need alone time to recharge, otherwise I get all kinds of stressed.

Today I went running. If by ‘running’ I mean moving faster than a briskish walk. Man, was I slow.

But of the SEVEN FREAKING POUNDS I gained since Dad died, I’ve lost two. So yay. More exercise and oatmeal in the future.

The Wire debuted last night, and is going to be all about an editor on the metro desk at a busy urban newspaper. Yeah, HBO, rub it in, my former editor on the metro desk at a busy urban newspaper Dad died. But it should be a fun season, and I kid, but I’m not really that solipsistic.

Speaking of which, solipsistic is one of MY favorite words. What are yours?

Megan
PS: Myretta, I know this file is HUGE, but then folks can see the details–does that make it okay?

While at the NJRWA Conference (oh . . . did I mention I went enough? Geez, you’d think I never got out. Oh. Right.), I attended Eileen Dreyer’s Workshop on creating fabulous first and last lines. Usually, I attend workshops, take notes, and then promptly forget everything that made me go ‘aha!’ while in the workshop.

But this one–man, she is so smart, and so on my writing wavelength, I came home and rewrote the first line of Road To Passion. And I am actually going to consult my notes as I try to finish this puppy. I gave myself a deadline of October 31, but I am not sure I can make it. But a goal is a lovely thing to have.

And because of the workshop, I pulled Eileen’s book Head Games from the shelf, and am LOVING IT. She is fantastic, and I am thrilled I have The Unfortunate Miss Fortunes (written with Jenny Crusie and Anne Stuart, yow) still on my shelf.

Life is way too busy these days, and I just have not been able to get my lame ass back onto the Road To Passion. Freelance work is 2-3 hours, gym is 2-3 hours, Son is in school 6 1/2 hours, which leaves maybe an hour to do something else. Like laundry. Or grocery shopping*. Or blogging (which, as you can tell, takes me maybe ten minutes. Twenty if I want to scout out a REALLY HOT** picture of Clive. Oh, btw, a mom friend is a makeup artist and her friend does Clive’s makeup. How many degrees of separation is that? She offered to see if I could meet him, but I declined. I mean, what would be the point? Besides feeling all weird about it. I prefer to keep my obsessions at a distance). So when do I write?
Aagh. I have to figure it out, the book’s NOT GOING TO WRITE ITSELF, MISSY!

Okay. I have now humiliated myself here by talking like somebody’s mom (caveat: not mine), and admitting I have a problem.
If you’re doing something important to you that doesn’t contribute to family well-being, etc., how do you fit it in?

Megan
*I saw Queer Eye/Top Chef guy Ted Allen at the grocery store yesterday.
**He’s not more than usually hot here, but he is with his wife, who looks normal, which is nice.

Married women who keep silent during marital disputes have a greater chance of dying from heart disease and other conditions than women who speak their minds. (LA Times)
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Hey, here’s an original comment: It’s FREAKING COLD. The first three days of the week I wore silk long underwear, then decided today it wasn’t supposed to be that cold, so I’d eschew the double layers.

Bad idea. My legs got all tingly and wind-slapped, and the only thing I could think of was a) tea and b) my stupidity.

Right now, I am inside (well, duh, I’m not writing this outside on the sidewalk) wearing a shirt, a sweater, and a sweatshirt. It’s cold inside, too. Although I just brewed some fresh tea.

Freelance work and the Great Real Estate Hunt has been taking up way too much of my leisure time, so writing has been slow, but whenever I DO get to do it, it’s a blast. Like a blast of cold air. Refreshing.

What are you doing to stay warm?

Megan