The first week in July is often a wash for me. Because my day job is in cubicle land, I have had Independence day as a paid holiday for nearly every one of the last 24 years. So it’s a short work week. One you can turn into a nice little vacation without using too many vacation days.

Even if I’m not taking extra time, since my job always has lots of dependencies on co-workers, enough of them take extra time off that projects enter a kind of limbo. Work days are usually less stressful, and one would expect that I might get more writing done at home.

But I seldom do. This year I had the excuse that warmer temperatures and weird humidity fluxes had my hay fever in overdrive all week.

But that isn’t the whole story.

Most years the manner the holiday breaks up my work schedule also messes up my usual bill-paying routine, so I would often pay one or two things a few days later than I meant. That’s become much less of an issue now that I use online bill paying through my bank. But it still indicates that some part of me considers that time around this particular holiday as somehow sitting outside the normal time space continuum. Too bad I don’t own a Tardis, eh?

The thing is, I don’t know if the whole story matters. Maybe I just need to accept that for whatever reason, the first week of July is often not productive, and just move on.

It’s not as if thinking about it is going to get any real writing done. Right?