I’m in the library, writing. Everyone thinks I’m working, but I’m not. It’s a convincing front. My computer is in front of me, open to a Word document, and I am typing away madly.
Working at home means that your life bleeds into your work. And if your husband is talkative and on summer break, then he’s likely to say something like “You know, I’ve been thinking…” and then launch into a treatise about solar panels, tree work, the car issue, politics, short shorts, publication, our friends, his sister, the dog, etc.
Sometimes people take working at home to mean “Your time is flexible” when I’m thinking “If I don’t finish this today, I’m fucked.” Now, I’m not complaining. I like working at home. But sometimes it’s too involved. I hoarded some time, left the house, went out for lunch alone, and am back at a table writing.
Everyone else can fuck off (but not you guys, you can stay).