We all have to work to eat and keep a roof over our heads...well, okay, maybe not all of us, but I do and most of the people I know do. Anyway, I've been thinking lately about why I work. If it's mere subsistence then I don't think I will be as productive as I could be, I want more.
When I attended the Brookhaven Bash here in Memphis this month, there were at least three rescue groups there. I gave each one a few dollars, but I want those few dollars to grow to ten, and later twenty or more. How much could it change the day of an animal rescuer if they found a $100 bill stuffed in their little jar for donations? That's my goal, to be able to afford that.
I want to wake up in the morning and decide to work on my book all day, with no interruptions and no feelings of guilt. Maybe it's selfish, but that's my goal, to lose myself in the minute details of reconciling radically differing accounts of the same historical event, weighing the evidence for both and choosing which one I believe to be true, then supporting that position. Doesn't that sound like fun?
I want to throw a ball around in my yard with my pups, just because they like it. I want to be able to let them run around and play and bark to their little heart's content, because the neighbors aren't close enough to be bothered by all of the commotion; that can't happen now. I want to travel, travel, travel, to see all of the great historical places I haven't seen yet, to sometimes just lay on a beach and read, or swim under the warm Caribbean sun in mid-January. I want to physically see the places I write about.
There's more, of course, but essentially I want to buy back my time and help whoever I want, whenever I want. Two years from now is the timetable for me to be in a position to start doing that. Whether I make it or not, that's the goal.
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