My great babysitter comes each Wednesday to play with the kids while I work on the piles of stories that are sitting in my in-box. Except that it's August. The NY editor is no doubt at the Hamptons or some other fab place. Another has jury duty. Another is on deadline. Two of my story subjects aren't returning calls at the moment. No doubt, they, too, are at the beach or in the jungle or maybe halfway around the globe. All are nice, accessible people eager to participate in the feature stories I am writing. None are investigative in nature. None are muckraking or something unpleasant. Hello! I am on the inspiration beat!
I feel like a cub reporter again, so eager am I for work. When I get an assignment, I finish it quickly and happily. I keep putting leads out for stories, but I am a bit worried that I'll get a huge influx of work that's all due at the same time. Such is the life of a freelancer. So here I sit, all geared up to write and interview and nothing to do. But, oh, I need this time when the babysitter comes so I can think and write and wonder. So I sit and feel a bit guilty for leaving my hardworking, generous-enough-to-lend-me-the-last-two-books-in-the-"Twilight"series, lovely babysitter with screaming, teething Charlotte and eternal pirate Ryan. Shouldn't I be under five deadlines to deserve her?
The library is quiet. I'll meet my husband for lunch soon, and we'll marvel at how odd it is to be kidless. And we'll remember when we were just we. Wait. Isn't that so much more important than any career?
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