I look at my binder of madness... the plastic one with pink and purple and blue plaid and a pink post it on the front that says "You Are Here" and i see somethign that is ready to be done, to be completed, finished, birthed.
Not quite like a baby, who's all put together in the right sort of order when they do that birth thing, but like a lego set; the pieces are there and you've lost the instruction, but you still have the picture. There are hunks still attached from the last time you built it and all you have to do is get the rest of the pieces sorted and plugged back in order.
The prequel, the Guide, teh first of the epic and the one i worry most about. It wants to be completed. i must only sit down and do it.
I designed a writing station. i will have my dad build it and in that space i will be focused.
But first we must buy a house. still months down the road, perhaps more. and then after that is a transition from jobs to job. working at home. one job.
Two jobs. becasue i want to work enough to devote one day's "Work Hours" to writing. to transcription of no one's words but my own.
and then my own schedule too. these days i find myself yearning to work and work into the night as the hours between now and the burbling of my cell phone's alarm shrinks from seven to six to five...i would work and work and that alarm doesn't have to come...
Of course, i wonder when i will fit sleep in, working in the night like i want, but that doesn't seem to bother me. and when i think of yeasr, so many years in the future, when both Gator and Mystery Future Baby are both in schoola nd my day can be used for workin and writnig and napping and preparing for everyone to come home.
I do'nt want to get there too fast, to waste those years, but i want to define my own life, once and for all, not let it be defined by the job i hate, i loathe, i detest i... i... i... don't even know.
Because the things i really want to do are being burned out by the raging angry-fire of the way i feel about my jbob. i am running ragged and to wait several years to continue this journey that only began with writing but must follow the life span of revising, editing, FINISHING... publishing, if even only for me.
I'm desperate, you see.