My wife cornered me yesterday, demanding that I tell her which week I have available this summer so we could take a family vacation.
We haven't taken a family vacation in four years. Not coincidentally, that was when I landed my first book deal.
My family deserves a vacation. Hell, I deserve a vacation too. But Hyperion hasn't planned the tour yet for DIRTY MARTINI (the release date looks to be the end of June) so I don't know where I'm going to be or what I'm going to be doing this summer.
My wife said that we need to take a week where we can rent a cabin on a lake, go fishing and swimming, and just hang out and relax.
I explained that I'm working my butt off so some day we can buy a cabin on a lake, and go fishing, swimming, and just hang out and relax every day for the rest of our lives. Remember the grasshopper and the ant? Work now, relax later.
My wife reminded me that my son will only be nine once, and we should enjoy him at this age.
I said that I have two distinct memories from being nine years old, neither of them involving my parents.
My wife called me an idiot. I couldn't argue with that.
But we do need a vacation, so I am going to find some time. I still haven't fully recovered from my 500 bookstore tour last summer. Since getting home I've written a screenplay, a novel, eight short stories and articles, attended seventeen events, and visited another 112 bookstores. I need to finish another book this month (which will be my 15th novel) but then I'll have a little bit of free time.
So I'm going to do it. I'm going to go on vacation. I don't want to be planning for a future with my family and find out---when the future arrives---that my family isn't there to share it with me because they got tired of waiting and left.
Am I the only insane workaholic who has this problem?