Caught in an endless loop of working too much and being cranky about not having any time off, and when I do, panicking that I'm not working enough and wishing I could be more productive. I know I ain't special. Everyone feels this way; we have a national workaholic epidemic on our hands. Until we stop treating busy-ness as a badge of honor, we're just going to feel terrible about ourselves until our ulcers finally burst and drown us in a torrent of stomach acid and unshakable malaise.
Where does the time go? One minute I'm fretting about not having enough to do, the next I'm buried under a mountain of repertoire because I simply can't stop saying no to people. Someday I'll figure o
Suddenly half a year has gone by. "You'll write more," you tell yourself, greeting every day with a promise that "Today will be the day I start on that story/essay/novel" and every day the same ending
In an early post from this blog, dated December 30, 2013 (almost nine years ago to the day), I wrote: "The week between Christmas and New Year's is one of my favorites. Nothing too pressing ever happe