I have an annoying tendency of turning hobbies into work. My book stack torments me. My guitar mocks me. Even my DVR list badgers me into binging. “Just one more,” it whispers in a conspiratorial tone. “Your wife won’t be home for hours.”
Back when I played fantasy football — for 17 seasons, no less — I found myself putting 20+ hours a week into preparation. That’s not counting all the games I watched from Thursday night through Monday night. Or the sleep I lost after endlessly replaying a bad beat in my head like an opium nightmare. I finally had to give it up because it was interfering with my actual job.
When I’m in manic novel-writing mode, this trait serves me well. The rest of the time, it sucks the enjoyment out of life in vampire fashion.
That’s it for now. Apparently I need to start watching “Stranger Things.” But just one episode.