I spend my days worrying away at my inability to squeeze in time as I'd like it; to wake up late, and write first thing, when I'm fresh, versus getting home in the afternoon and word-vomitting all over a piece of paper. I estimate when I will next be able to visit my parents, my sisters, my brother; and how long I can spend with my boyfriend, and there is always this tension I feel building up in me, because by the end of the week, all I want to do is spend my time buried in a notebook somewhere, eavesdropping and scrawling out dialogue, or describing the angle of the buildings in downtown Lowell, or interviewing some people about what they do for work, and what they'd rather be doing.
I've learned over the last year that estimating can't be quantified in quite the way that my cheatsheet shows; it doesn't really take our union guys a day to install 120 SY of carpet every time; it depends on the type of carpet, and the size of the rooms, and their shape, and also how far the place is. Every hour is based on a note somewhere else. Nothing is straight forward.
With all my dreams of writing and editing and teaching full-time, I can only glimpse the possibilities, including the very real possibility of failure, which is why I continue to estimate flooring, at least for now, until the time is right to counter-balance my time in new directions, on stories and editing, when I think that I can get the hours just right.