“It’s Friday!!!”
Back then, that phrase meant freedom. Escape. Two glorious days where I did not have to think about spreadsheets, customer service emails, or that one person who believed—deep in their soul—that the phrase “the customer is always right” was a legally binding personality trait.
Friday was less a day and more a rescue mission.
I would shut down my computer with the kind of energy usually reserved for action heroes walking away from explosions. Weekend mode: activated. Brain: off. Joy: cautiously returning.
And then… plot twist.
I became a full-time author.
Now let me tell you something no one puts on the inspirational Pinterest quote boards. When you start doing what you love for a living, you do not suddenly become someone who lounges gracefully with a cup of tea while words float onto the page.
No.
You become someone who, at seven p.m. on a Friday, is whispering, “Just one more chapter…” while your dog stares at you like you’ve betrayed the entire concept of “weekend.”
You become someone who, at two p.m. on a Saturday, is knee-deep in social media scheduling, wondering how many ways you can say “mysterious, magical, and slightly suspicious” before it starts to sound like a personality diagnosis.
And yes… the spreadsheets?
They followed me.
I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But they are here. Watching. Waiting. Existing in tabs I refuse to close because they feel important.
But ... Fridays still feel exactly the same. Because I’m not escaping something—but I’m looking back at something.
Now when Friday rolls around, I don’t feel that frantic need to run away from my week. Instead, I find myself pausing (usually with a slightly dramatic sigh, because I am still me) and realizing what actually happened over the past few days.
Stories were created.
Characters whispered their secrets at inconvenient times.
Chapters were wrestled into submission, edited, re-edited, and then side-eyed suspiciously before being declared “good enough… probably.”
Audio was recorded, mysteries deepened, and somewhere in the middle of it all, a tiny bit of magic appeared on the page where there was absolutely nothing before.
That’s the difference.
The work didn’t get easier. If anything, it got more intense, more consuming, and significantly more likely to follow me into what used to be called “free time.” The meaning of that changed completely, and Friday is no longer the end of something I needed a break from.
It’s the quiet, satisfying moment where I get to say, “Look at that… I built something this week.”
Also, occasionally, “Why did I decide this subplot needed three extra suspects?” but that’s a separate conversation.
The funny thing is, from the outside, it might look like I traded one kind of work for another—and technically, that’s true. But I feel like I traded exhaustion for purpose.
Don’t get me wrong. I am still tired. I am an author. That’s part of the brand now.
But it’s a different kind of tired. The kind that comes with a sense of “this matters.” The kind that makes Friday feel less like an escape hatch and more like a quiet celebration.
And yes… I still occasionally glance at the clock on a Friday evening and think, “Shouldn’t I be done?”
Then I look at the story waiting for me, the characters who are absolutely not going to behave unless I supervise them, and I realize something slightly ridiculous and completely wonderful, and I don’t actually want to be done.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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