Saturday, October 25, 2008

Freelancing Friday Vs. BBTW

I was a writer yesterday. Sure, I've been a writer for a while (the Film Fest introductions happily confirmed this for me), but yesterday I was writing, at home, on a weekday, making money from the written word. And what a beautiful day it was.

I probably have a lot to learn when it comes to productivity, time-management and discipline. I did make myself shower and wear non-pajamas, though. That was a start. And I set mini-goals, most of which were reached. I even made about $10 more than if I were subtitling. So this writing thing might actually be worth it. Once the laptop is part of my life (the Macbook is coming, I promise), I may have to write in coffee shops and libraries instead of in my little abode. Because there's that overwhelming urge to get up and do laundry in the middle of the day. Or watch television. Or do laps in front of the fridge....

It's also hard to distinguish between the workday and the post-workday. How do I walk away and not continue staring at my computer, wasting hours reading blogs and Twittering? And then there are the freelancing issues like invoicing, receipt-collecting and budgeting. Yes, I can write off part of my Internet bill. And the purchase of bridal magazines. The thought of getting organized financially is a little overwhelming.

My writing day did eventually come to an end, and after an evening of laundry and bathtub-scrubbing, I tried to go to bed. But BBTW (Boy Behind the Wall) decided to have a party. At midnight. One that included the blaring of techno music and the shouting of the odd profane phrase. The walls are thin here, and the head of my bed rests against his wall. So I know the details of his life (as I'm sure he knows mine) via auditory experience. Let's just say I am very aware of when he and his girlfriend are getting along marvelously.

I couldn't sleep. I wasn't in the mood to be angry at him either. I briefly considered throwing on a cute dress and crashing his shindig. But I am not a party-crasher. At all. Nor do I want to participate in something that too closely resembles fraternity living.

Instead, I lit a candle, turned on some Baroque music, and read the first twelve chapters of Pride and Prejudice by lamplight.

Ahh, how I heart Mr. Darcy.

I wonder if BBTW knows that his partying brought out the content old lady in me. Or that his adventures provide the writer next door with plenty of amusing material.

6 comments:

Christianne Burrage said...

by saying (the macbook is coming), does that mean that you ordered one?

nadine said...

No. It means I've been convinced to buy one. So now I must.

I'm still figuring out my upgrade and software needs.

November will be the magical month of laptop goodness :)

Sarah said...

You know, I have that same problem of distinguishing the work day from post- or pre-work day. That and the problem of remembering to wear not pajamas. So if you've got at least one of those problems solved on your first day, you're ahead of the game!

nadine said...

Of course, my "non-pajamas" happened to be "sweatpants and no makeup." To go with my pink slippers.

Grace said...

Visiting via ProBlogger promo. GREAT writing! Keep it up. (And can you maybe put your bed against another wall? :-) G.

michael lewis said...

I recently bought a baseball bat at Wal-Mart. I doubt I will use it for its intended purpose; I have a family to consider. However, if I were single, I would have used it on the Crazy above my ceiling already. He has no life, so no one would miss him, and the basement stinks already and the floor is cracked and some of it is dirt and I've spent too much time thinking about this, and now I've typed it all out.

Twittering is not wasted time.

When you get your MacBook, you'll most definitely need Billings 3 (no, it's not a Montana Trivia game).

I've encroaching on the ever so mind-bottling* 35, and I still don't have my finances sorted out. Although, I did recently download a trial version of QuickBooks.

*Watching Will Ferrell in Blades of Glory will explain this Freudian slip.