I don't know how it happens, but periodically I look up and find I've committed far more time than I have to spare.
But it's all good. I'm not complaining. It's just that things seem to come in bunches. Like when you wish for rain during a dry spell, and then when it rains, it doesn't seem to stop. Rain every day.
Through it all, the workshops and conferences and meetings, and the push and pull of daily life, I've tried to find time for writing. I was five chapters into my next novel when I attended a master workshop last Saturday. Since then, I've been re-writing every page to reflect the things I learned.
It's been difficult and exhilarating, not unlike climbing a mountain. I can't say I've reached the top, only that I''m trying my best to get there.
I wonder if any writer just sits down and lets the words pour out. I suspect most of them, like me, struggle to put the wordflow into the best possible order, and that only after much rearranging and shuffling via "cut and paste." And lots of hitting the erase key.
I'm not wishing I hadn't signed up for all these workshops and conferences, because every one has taught me something new and added to my small store of skills.
So I guess I should confess although I may be overcommitted, I'm not overwhelmed.
I'm sitting here singing in the rain.