I love this life, but sometimes a reality-check is in order. (See also, among others, Lee's comments on the not-so-glamorous life of a travel writer, and Alexis Grant's recent post on the same subject.) Right now, eleven days until book deadline, I'm reminded that for every single day I spend here:
... I can count on another--What? Four? Ten? Twenty?--days here:
(And if you panned right just a bit, you'd see another shelf of research books, plus a dozen over-stuffed folders with magazines, my notes, and my parents' letters.)
At least it has now been proven that saving letters, postcards, books, notes...is worth it. Vindication for packrats, I say. Or are we collectors or archivists?
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