The morning started off well and early. By 7 AM I was dressed, a fire warming the house. I’d vacuumed and washed the dishes and headed out for a walk. I’d planned to do two laps up Pilot Butte for a total of 6 miles but my thoughts turned to all the things I had to accomplish with my day, which I knew was more than I could get done no matter how focused and committed I stayed. I returned home after one lap, did 15 minutes of Yoga; not much but I couldn’t get into it with all the untended tasks twirling in my head. After a bath I sat down to a nice little breakfast. I wanted to finish reading last week’s news magazine but ended up slugging back the last three swallows of tea and moved on to the day’s work in my office.
I trudged through work that was no longer satisfying to me, hadn’t been for years, and missed my afternoon Tai Chi session and nap. I took the dogs for an early evening walk and noted the primroses still in their plastic containers sitting on the porch waiting patiently for three days now, hoping to find freedom with their roots finding their way into Mother Earth. Perhaps I’ll get around to planting them this weekend.

While I was walking I recapped the work I’d done during the day and wondered why I was no longer happy with being in the book business. Many people think I have a dream job. I own my own book marketing company and represent a number of talented authors, most of whom I’m proud to work with as their novels and memoirs are some of the finest in the country. But I’m bored and unfulfilled and, frankly, jealous and frustrated. Few of my clients appreciate what we do for them. Most don’t believe that the marketing of their book is every bit as important as the quality of the writing. A common refrain I say to myself is, “If only it was my book, and me, that I was marketing I’d be a great success because I write as well as many published authors I know, and I completely subscribe to the model of book promotions I’ve developed. No one would have to talk me into needing to do more.” Then of course I wonder why indeed I haven’t finished one of three books that is nearly complete, and why am I not spending all this energy that I put into making other writers successful into my own writing career. I know that the answer is that I don’t have a writing career because I’m afraid to put myself out there so I substitute my desires to making other authors do well, even if it seems against their will. I don’t get to read books any more for the pleasure I get from great writing. I only have time to read books and manuscripts that we are considering as projects to work with. I sit down and instantly go into critic mode. No, I don’t like my job any more, haven’t for three years. But I need the money. Or at least that is the excuse I use to cover up my fear.

It is dark now. I stretch a bit, take a bath, slip into comfy clothes and head to the kitchen to make a salad. However, a television show I want to watch starts in five minutes so I skip the elaborate salad and microwave leftover chicken and potatoes; more calories than I need to be eating at 8 PM, I know this, especially when I haven’t gotten much exercise and have been snacking on comfort food throughout the day, but I can’t muster the energy or time for anything else. I don’t watch much television and it isn’t a very good program and I but I feel the need to just veg out. I sink into my recliner with my plate of food on my lap, and chill. When the first commercial comes on I remember an email I’d meant to respond to. I have just enough time to get that done before the show resumes. For two more hours I watch stupid TV and only sit through three commercial sessions because I have so many last minute work tasks to attend to. So much for vegging out.

At 10 PM I go to bed to read but I’m too exhausted, though it hasn’t been a particularly stressful day. I just want to escape into sleep. I conjure up the miles of sweet pine forest I didn’t get to walk through today, the stories I didn’t get to write, the place of peace I didn’t get to visit through meditation. The last thing I recall before drifting into sleep are the tears seeping into my pillow.