My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Confusing Work with Boredom
He picked up the papers, moved them around, formed them into neat piles and then into stacks. He went and got more. Then it was cards, and files were next. These were piled, then moved. In between he filled in, or out, some forms and read one or two. He had lunch, looked around, and scratched his head. Then he went home. Because he was tired, he thought he had been working. Instead he was bored, but he could not call it that.
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