August 1

I hate August 1.
I don't care what the calender says; for me, August 1 marks the last month of summer.
I think it's imprinted upon our psyche as children when we were able to have those glorious months off - months that seemed to stretch ahead of us endlessly.
Even then whenever August 1 came, I realized that I hadn't accomplished everything I'd wanted. I hadn't lost the weight, I hadn't read all the books, I hadn't written all the stories...
That's what bothers me now with August 1 - the negative "hadn't".

But now that I'm older with a more rational mind (at least at times), I can look back on June and July and think:
I did the revisions to my book
I made promotional material for it
I promoted it at RWA
I wrote half of the next novella
I worked on other writing projects
I went to the Deadly Ink conference
I planted a little garden
I rearranged some of my hoards of books
And I did all of that while working a full time job that suddenly gave me more responsibility.

Then the irrational (the twelve-year-old part) of my mind says, "Yes, but..."
You didn't lose the weight
You didn't read all the books
You didn't write all the stories.

August 1 should be the day for those of us imprinted with the long, luscious days of a childhood summer to reflect on what we have accomplished and give ourselves credit, ignoring the deriding whispers of unmet "great expectations".

Oh, crap! I wanted to read THAT book again this summer...