A long weekend, which was to be devoted to free-writing, instead became an occasion to fret and worry about the future.
Almost.
With the goal of 5,000 words a day for the next nine days, and a full-time job, I just can’t afford my usual rumination and recrimination mind-dances. I’m having some success distracting my ruminator with ear-buds full of classical guitar music.
But I have managed to check my retirement accounts online every other day, and read a little political news (which is as much as I can stomach). And I feel the stress creeping in along the base of my neck. I hear the strain in my friends’ and colleagues’ voices, in their body movements—even those who aren’t usually prone to unhelpful rumination.
Is there a “contentedness index”? Is it linked to the Dow? Should it be?
I reached my 5,000 Saturday and Sunday, and am only 1,000 words away today with two more hours I can spend writing. I could have done more, without the worrying, but I also could have done far less (or fewer).
Can’t let the terrorists win. Especially the ones only in my head.
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