I May Be a Workaholic

Well, I am one. That’s not up for debate anymore.

Right before summer vacation I very often envision myself leisurely writing a couple thousand words a day (or one scene a day), hanging out on social media, working out regularly, and generally having the awesome life that I’d have year-round if I didn’t work two jobs (Day job and writing. Yes. Writing is a second job. *stern stare*)

After summer arrives, I realize this life of leisure doesn’t exist. Full-time writers don’t have some calm existence. Why did I think they did? Why did I think *I* would? Instead of packing all of my mad dash word sprints and anxiety and planning into 4-5 hours after work like during the school year, I spread it out over an ENTIRE DAY.

This is literally me every day so far this summer:

And the guilt is insane. I scold myself for not doing something writerly or authorly and agonize over every spare moment that I spend doing something else. Yesterday I wrote nearly four thousand words, and I still felt bad because I technically could have written more. And then of course I told myself all those words were trash.

I was discussing this with Roan Parrish, and it led to the following series of exchanges on Twitter. It turns out, other writers are the same way.

Any tips, suggestions, or commiserations to share with me on coping with this problem?