I gave myself yesterday off to read Scott Turow's Innocent, a sequel to Presumed Innocent, which was published in 1987. A true day off is rare as unicorns for me. Even if I am not at the office gig or in the studio, I am cleaning house or doing yard work. I am not having a pity party: there is an element of recreation in all my versions of work, and time for pure recreation most days. We have, for example, just finished watching through the nine seasons of The X-Files, via Netflix. Still, a day when I give myself permission to do nothing productive? I can't remember the last time that happened.
The book is riveting. I sat by a sunny window with an elderly cat purring and drooling on my lap, and read straight through. The funny thing is, after I turned the last page, though it was still my Day Off, I was eager to get into the studio. I trimmed a stack of plates for a dinnerware set I've been designing, possibly for small-scale production. I glazed some mugs and bowls for the next firing. I guess that's what it means to love your work.
My camera is still on the fritz, and finding a place to repair it is on my list for today. Said list is massive, due to yesterday's goofing off, but I'll get it done. And if I don't, there's always tomorrow.