Ahh, summer vacation. As a college professor, it was always my time to dig deep and really write. Classes at my university end about a month before the schools let out, so when my kids were in school I always had a luxurious—but finite—amount of time to get a lot done. Knowing my time was limited, I would sit down and churn out the pages.
But by the end of the summer, I was usually antsy and ready to get back to work.
The twist this summer is that I resigned my teaching position as of a month ago. My kids have (mostly) grown up and moved out, so what stretches ahead of me is an unlimited summer break. I’m losing track of the day of the week. Along with Maggie Smith’s Dowager Countess Grantham on Downton Abbey, I might ask, “What is a weekend?”
|With the other new emeriti|
And I’m worried that in a few months, I’ll be antsy and ready to get back to work, but there won’t be work to get back to.
Or is it that I used to get antsy in August because classes were looming, syllabi were due, book orders were to be checked, and classrooms to be changed, and I was caught up in the excitement? And now that none of that will happen, will I be settled into my new routine and will hardly notice that just down the street, the first-year students are lining up, that someone else will be teaching the classes I created (okay, I admit to a bit of possessiveness here), that the office I possessed for twenty-eight years will be filled with nice new furniture and a new professor?
With—almost—unlimited time at my disposal, will I continue to write at the rate I used to during the summer months, when I knew my time was limited? Will I write better? Worse?