Time on My Hands

I’ve been waiting many, many years for this moment. Although I have had the time to write a handful of books while working and going to school, I have been looking forward to retirement so that I could devote more time to writing.

I have some trepidation about that. Not because I fear writing, but because work has taken up so much of my time. All retirees face the issue of what to do with their time. Those still working often envy retirees and are baffled by such concerns. Even if they like their job, the prospect of having so much free time seems so enticing.

It is a jolting change, nevertheless. We lose the routine that has kept us going for so many years and, more importantly, we risk losing our identity. The first question often asked when we meet someone new, is “What do you do?”  Soon, I will have the option of saying, “Nothing.”

I could say that I’m a writer. I have been one for decades. That’s rarely how I answer the question, though, because my working career was how I made most of my living.

I often avoid telling people I’m a writer, because I primarily write fiction. I’m not ashamed of that. It’s just that the questions that follow mostly have the same answer: “Read the damn books.”

Fiction is its own explanation. It is pointless, really, spending time describing your novels.

Now that I’m about to have more time, maybe I can spend some of it coming up with a polite answer.