I wouldn't exactly call my current situation a holiday. But since I've vacated my home and my job for three months, I guess that does make it a vacation. I've worked every day, to some degree, even though that work has ranged from moments of vague thinking about my manuscript to hours upon hours of butt-in-chair, pen-in-notebook/fingers-on-keyboard writing.
It's a very different kind of work than my regular, for-money gig. I get to decide what I do, when. (Except for the days when the project bosses me around.) I can go for a walk when I get antsy or drink a glass of wine at my desk. My days fly. And, the very best part: I almost never have to set an alarm. (Then again, I do work evenings and weekends.)
In all of those ways, it does seem very much like a holiday. (Not to mention the gorgeous backdrops!)
But I've been thinking of it simply as time and space to write. Days and days of time; gorgeous spaces.
The real holiday begins in a few days when J. joins me in Barcelona for four weeks of adventure. (Not that I feel the need for a holiday. This is the sweetest work life imaginable!) I'll still be scratching in my notebook during that time, but the project that brought me here will sleep for a month until I'm home.
In the mean time, I am: editing, assembling, bits-and-bites writing and general fuss-budgeting on the first draft of the MS. Plus, suddenly, Spain poems are niggling.
So much work to do! So few days left!
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