In other words, any mere undergrad in economics would would look upon my works and declare them hideously inefficient. (No doubt, any graduate worth his or her salt would declare me surplus and send me to the salt mines forthwith.)
There's an ancient joke - I think it was a cartoon, New Yorker-style. In the foreground, man is seated at a desk in front of a typewriter. But his arms are linked behind his neck and his nose is in the air, like some nascent organic snorkel evolving before the viewer's eye - but I digress. Point is, he's asleep.
In the background, a mother admonishes her (presumably their) child. "Shh!" she says, index finger pasted to her mouth like a flag on Canada Day, "Daddy's working!"
And there's some truth to the idea. Any artistic process that is not purely mechanical surely must require some fallow-time, mustn't it? And I know that most some of the most prolific writers are prolific simply through typing 1,000 words a day.
And yet, and yet, and yet ...
Maybe I've spent too much time in the pay-cheque world of wage-slavery, but it's hard to think of 3 hours work as being a full day.
And yet and on the other hand ...
When I hit the 2,200 word mark, my head was tired. I certainly wasn't likely to write any more fiction today.
But maybe I should have found the energy to start on my (eternally-delayed) wish to teach myself to build websites using Drupal?
I don't know. The very fact that I have been writing (almost) daily at all seems almost miraculous to me. Maybe I shouldn't worry about what I do with the rest of my time, at least not until I've established this as an unbreacheable routine.
Onwards. And sideways. Or something.