I can tell that some people consider my lifestyle with envy. I can work when I want, where I want, and in my slippers. I stop for a break when I choose, not when the clock or a buzzer or someone in authority says I can. I gotta tell you, after thirty years of responding to bells every hour or so, it's great.
The other side of that coin, however, is that my brain is a harder taskmaster than most bosses. It doesn't allow for breaks when the ideas are flowing, which means a sore back at the end of the day. It chews on plot-knots when I'm trying to sleep, bake, read or drive. And it has no concept of holidays, days off, weekends, or vacations. There's a feeling that I have to write down that snippet now, while it's fresh, or it will disappear forever. And sad to say, experience teaches that it really will.
I've mentioned before that I carry a small tape recorder to capture ideas that hit from the blue. One author friend has a notebook in which she writes everything: her own thoughts, observations, and ideas from others. So even when we meet for lunch we're both sort of on duty, watching the crowd for interesting characters, filing events that evoke humor or pathos for future reference.
So on Labor Day, am I resting from my labors? I intend to. But I'm so close to getting the timing right on the WIP. If it comes together today, then maybe tomorrow will be my holiday. Or the day after that.