I've been working a lot lately. This is somewhat disturbing, as I'm a fundamentally lazy person. The problem is, I'm not a procrastinator, and once I get in it my head that I have to do something, I do it.

I'm not overworked at my day job. In fact, I'm lucky if I manage six hours at "work," and that includes lunch. There are a lot of reasons for this, but they're complicated and they don't have anything to do with my situation. Just understand that I get paid a decent salary mostly for sitting on my ass, and let it go at that.

So the problem isn't The Man. It's so much worse. I'm overworked in the non-paying parts of my life. For starters, I've been reviewing 40-45 albums every three weeks for the past four months or so. It's hard to listen to that much music and then say something reasonably intelligent about it. But that's not what worries me. See, summer is the slow season for music releases. That means I may be up to 50-60 albums every three weeks this fall.

I don't think I can do that.

But that's only half of the problem. The other big segment of my working life is the novel. After two years of letting an idea fester, back in April, I decided to write my fourth novel. Don't ask about the first three; they weren't very good. This is also an issue with the fourth.

Still, the quality of the effort isn't what is bothering me. I'm more concerned about the quality of my life. See, after six hours of work, I come home. Usually, I cook, but not always. Then I might read or do something else with the wife. Then I excuse myself and go write. Sometimes I work on the music, and sometimes the novel. But it's always a good amount of time.

This, of course, is not always a popular decision. In fact, it's causing a bit of stress (everyday stress, mind you, not "Get your ass out of this house!" kinda stress). Writing is one of those selfish activities where the person involved has to shut out the rest of the world while accomplishing the task. Most of my favorite writers have been divorced at least once (many more than that) and I can see why. Writing is hard, draining work, especially after a long day of getting paid for sitting on one's ass.

And why do I do this?

Let's see. The day job is to help pay the mortgage and maybe sprint for refinishing the attic this winter. I review albums so that I can listen to gobs of great new music all the time (and get big piles of CDs--ones I like, even--for free). And the novel writing is what I really want to do with my life.

Of those three work situations, the only one that seems even halfway reasonable to me is the second. I still like listening to music I've never heard before. As for the mortgage, well, that's a decent reason, but I could work a better job, get paid less and still cover my end of the monthly bill. Which brings me to the "what I want to do with my life" part of the equation.

I'm not a bad writer. Most people think I'm pretty good. Occasionally I write something that bears out such faith. But does this mean I'm cut out to write books for a living? Of course not. There are lots of authors out there, but very few of them write for a living. Most of them are college professors (a lifestyle I just couldn't hang with, I'm afraid) and the rest are lucky. So money is not my reason for writing books.

No, I do it because I'm crazy enough to think I just might be good at it. Not that experience is any guide. In fact, I'm pretty good at writing vaguely interesting but utterly flawed books. I just have this wild belief that the more I write, the better I'll become.

Stranger things have happened. But I'm beginning to question my zeal on the thought. For starters, all this time spent writing (and away from other things I like to do, like drink beer) is beginning to chafe. I find it hard to relax because I always think "I should be writing." I fact, the only thing I've written this Labor Day weekend is this column, and I feel kinda guilty about that. I shoulda been working on that revision, damnit! I shoulda been doing more, in any case.

So is this stress worth it? I dunno. I think I'll have to finish writing the novel to find the answer. Like I said, I'm lazy, but not a procrastinator. I've gotta get the book done. Then I'll see if I have a life left.

Priorities are a bitch.

Jon Worley did drink beer this weekend, which makes it better than last weekend.