Mondays are weird for me.
I don’t really dread them the way many seem to. Yes, it’s tough having a weekend free of work obligations come to a screeching halt because of Monday’s arrival, but I have a different reason for dreading them.
On Monday, office talk usually progresses to, “So, what’d you do this weekend?” Or, “How was your weekend?”
It’s hard for me to answer those questions and not get an eyeroll in return or a quick, “Oh, I have a meeting in a minute. Gotta run!” from my colleagues.
See, I write. That’s what I enjoy doing on my days off from the office. I don’t go on safari (except in my mind), I don’t visit the museum, or the zoo, or go shopping, or hang out with relatives. I don’t visit my friends who have cute kids, and I rarely commit to anything that will take time away from writing.
I like to write. I’m a writer. That’s kinda what we do.
So when I say to a co-worker that I had a FANTASTIC weekend, and their eyes grow big and round with anticipation, it hurts to see their eagerness deflate when I begin to describe how I wrote the most AWESOME chapter this weekend, or how the new scene that landed on the page unexpectedly somehow managed to tie the central theme of the story to the action of the characters, and — here I pause for dramatic effect — the characters have created this splendidly beautiful scene wherein justice is served, there’s umpteen levels of subtext that serves to enrich the story, and I couldn’t be more excited! If they don’t pass out from boredom, I consider it a story well told.
And you’d think they’d know better than to ask me the following week, but they do, and I respond with another scintillating tale of characters gone mad.
Sometimes I’m glad that I am forced to enter the “real world” on occasion. It keeps me grounded in the knowledge that talking about writing is a screaming bore.