I’ve been putting in long hours over the past several weeks getting this website through its final pre-launch stage (along with the help of Mirek, whose coding skills and technical expertise in general have carried the day for me many times here and in other circumstances), and also preparing to get some past work up in eBook format for Kindle.

All this has meant mastering or at least becoming basically proficient in about half a dozen new pieces of software and content management systems—always a challenge at best.

Last night, Saturday night, I finally stopped working somewhere around 9:oo pm and went upstairs to cook.  (I live in a pleasant little duplex on the top floor of a 175-year-old Federal building, with a nice skylight on the landing at the top of the stairs, and the kitchen is on the second floor.)  I’d put in a lot of hours.  And for no tangible return (which has been true of much of the past few months of work).

Normally I think what I most want to do is write (and there’s much truth in that), and just down a notch from there is working one-on-one with people.  And for both I certainly do enjoy getting paid.

This day’s work involved neither writing nor coaching, and nor did I get paid for it.  But, as I reached the top of the stairs, I realized that actually, if I were going to be honest with myself, I had to admit that despite the demands of the work, I’d had fun doing it.  Now, if someone had also been paying me for it at the same time, and over the past months too, I’d have been just happy as a clam in a Wisconsin lakebed.