Finding Time to Write, a radical approach…

Productivity porn espouses getting up earlier, writing in those wasted moments at the bus stop, etc…I’ve been able to double my productivity applying such ideas, then by employing a regimen and again with dictation.

Now I’m doing something that may seem contrary to the beliefs of my readers and friends: I’m giving up my rural lifestyle.

It’s not all for productivity—there’s nothing I’d produce other than children that might justify this lifestyle change.

Mostly, it’s for my mental health and my pocketbook.

We’re going against the tide of people who yearn to live in the country. We are moving to town.

When I assumed ownership of this place, I met the previous owner. I asked him why he was leaving such an awesome property. He said it was too much for him to keep up with.

My response then was to scoff (internally) and pledge to double down on my work ethic. I could handle 11 acres. I’d add 4 children, livestock, and while I was at it…I’d build a 60ft pirate ship. Sure, why not?

Living in the country was perfect for us, a true fertile ground for parenting, but now it's become a fool's paradise to remain.

How? Why? What’s going on?
Like a restaurant owner, or an innkeeper, or many other fields, a farmer must be wed and welded to their role. I was never more than a hobby farmer, but even so, there were mouths to feed. Lots of mouths.

The costs to keep our little flock and herd in food never reached anything astronomical, but every month their line item in the budget was a bitter pill.

Opportunity costs were more bothersome, for sometimes when I was hefting around feed bags or shoveling out the hen house I’d think, “I could be doing something else with my time. I’ve chosen to do this. Why?”

I could do such things in the name of love for the land and the million thrills one feels on their own property (so much is written on this…I’ve written on this…trust me, it’s a precious position to be in as a land owner). I was able to endure much more for the property, too, so long as I kept the agrarian ideal in mind.

Weeds. Maybe they were the metaphorical straw that broke my back. At times I had to mow for four hours at a stretch, several patches of the property per week. I found many things hidden in the weeds: animal corpses, living snakes and baby bunnies, spools of wire, wads of chicken wire, discarded tarps, tree stumps, abandoned tools…you name it. I mowed it.

I did get a lot of pleasure from being somewhat self-sufficient in repairs of lawn tractors, fence mending, project building…. There’s that, I guess.

However, our budget kept getting tighter and my time kept getting shorter, and furthermore, my attentions were divided to the point of dissolution.

Giving up the farm feels like pulling the plug on a loved one. There’s a new layer of guilt associated with it, that I am a quitter, a traitor, a loser. I’ve always felt badly for failed businesses and boarded up store fronts. Now my farm is to be passed on to someone, and it is obvious I was unable to cut it.

At least it’s on my own terms and not like my father, who suffered bankruptcy and total loss of his way of life, all he knew, all he wanted.