. . . another episode, noodling about what I should be doing for work.
Editing,
writing,
editing,
managing-editor-ing,
editing,
copywriting,
blogging,
editing.
Yeah, they’re all OK, but they’re not it. Not it at all, anymore. I do still sometimes feel a shining, thrilling contentment with a fresh manuscript page ahead. Mine, all mine to make right, make fit, make sense.
But then that page turns into 46, and that chapter into 15 (plus case studies). And I’m restless.
Another new year, another distress signal–even my toddler’s starting to pick them up. So I’ve got to get my mind right for him, for my husband.
And yeah, for me.
How? I’m starting to look at motivations. In an article I started editing this week (or was it something I read on Twitter? christ, they’re all running together, another sign), the author says, “You can’t know what you want to do with your career until you know your motivations.”
I’ve started examining those, and with luck and something akin to ambition, I’ll be posting about that process. For now, a glass of red for New Year’s Eve; a dancing, Lego-building boy; a karaoke-singing husband; and our bowl-game binge.
The Pedestrian Pedant 