It's just as I expected. Zero to sixty. Well, more like thirty-five. Summers are always weird like that. Especially this summer; new place (who dis?), few friends, fewer gigs. Just me and the crickets and the stifling humidity.
Then, bang! September hits and it's off to the races (and West Paces, ha ha shhh) and between that and the upcoming gigs and abundant trips, a nice blend of business and pleasure, and I'm more or less settling back into my unconventional routine-less routine. I think it's in the lazy perfectionist's nature to work harder when there are more things on her plate. (Yes, I've decided to speak for all lazy perfectionists.) When my schedule is free and clear, there's no incentive to get things done quickly, no looming deadline kicking your butt into gear, no threat of public humiliation (just private shame, which I bury under heaps of coffee-stained New Yorkers and crossword puzzles).
I guess I should be practicing right now though, or making pasta sauce, or working out, or all of the above! At the same time! This blog post is such a disaster. If you've read all the way up to now, thank you, but also, why?