juggling

I am still trying to strike a balance between writing about my life and my writing life, since they are so inevitably (hopelessly? thankfully?) intertwined.  Even when the writing is not happening, there is a corresponding anxiety about it not happening…that I’m not meant to be emailing prospective graduate students at my day job, or watching television (possibly true), or going for a walk at lunch time instead of squeezing in an hour of reading or writing (this one is truly a toss-up…healthy body/healthy mind and all that).  It’s a constant inner dialogue, and since so much of my time is spent trying to arrange or rearrange things in my own life to facilitate more writing, I can only conclude that this space is going to include some words about things that may not, on the surface, appear to be about writing.   

That’s a long disclaimer. 

If all this has a slightly panicked flavour, it’s because I’m doing a little more juggling than usual these days.  I’m supposed to be editing, but every day when I come home from work, the towering piles of boxes are beckoning me to do just one more.  Even leaving aside all the oh-so-necessary items* lurking inside them that I need access to, I don’t want to compromise our living space for any longer than I have to.  Of course, every opened box means finding space for the items inside --- no small challenge in our apartment.  And besides the novel, I have three other deadlines for Sunday and Monday (freelancing things, plus an essay I really want to submit to an anthology that promises to be exciting and excellent), which means buckling down, no Osheaga, no more unpacking even, for the next few days.   

Okay?  (Okay.)

I do, however, intend to fit at least one of these cones into my weekend, courtesy of Kem Coba, the magnificent ice cream place next door to my old apartment:

A trio of yumminess

*many of these items are of dubious necessity