Farmer John Style

I got home last night with one big shiny item on the to-do list. It was the most important item of the day, the one that I needed to sit down and write if I ever have a hope of forging something like enough discipline to have the career that I want as opposed to the career that I have.

It was 8:45 PM, give or take, when I got back and I just didn’t have anything left. Nothing whatsoever.

At this point in the story what usually happens is I juggle my schedule, push things off for a day or two, and then zone out in front of the Food Network so that my brain can unwind.

I was so tired when I hit the house last night that I saw a different opportunity: I could just go to bed. At 9. On a Wednesday. Like an old man.

I’m a theatre person we don’t go to sleep before 1 AM on a school night. Our souls are wired to the night, but lately—and by lately I mean for years—I’ve just been a zombie during prime rehearsal/performance time. The tasks I have to do—write, plot, plan, scheme—are daytime activities for me.

If I went to sleep, I could have the morning to myself. Hours, as many as three or four chunky hours where no one had any claims on my time.

So I hit the hay, read a little of the D&D Player’s Handbook until the equipment lists looked like the actuarial tables that they are, and then slipped off to dreamland as I was serenaded by the neighbor’s air conditioner.

A half hour later my housemate started playing guitar in her room so I turned the white noise generator track on my iPhone on. A half hour after that it was unnecessary. I figure I was “light’s out” in my brain by 10:45.

My feet hit the ground around 6:30 this morning. I was eating breakfast—coffee, sausages, omelette—before 7. I’m actually taking a short pause from THE WORK to squeeze this out. When I go back I’ll have an hour and a half to myself. The email is stacking up and I know there are people who want questions answered.

I don’t fucking care. I’m Farmer John, and this is my time.