Confessions of a Workaholic

I didn't know I was a workaholic. That surprises me because I easily spotted plenty of other victims. I even scolded a few of them for carrying their identities in a briefcase.

Then I found myself taking the cure. Cold turkey! And only when I felt the withdrawal symptoms did I recognize the disease and realize what was happening.

I had resigned from my job as a television producer and moved from Calgary to Winfield in the Okanagan Valley. My wife Bev had accepted a call to be the minister here. I had always wanted to write, and this seemed like an ideal opportunity.

Suddenly I didn't have an official title or a position or an office to go to, and I didn't have a pay check at the end of every month. I felt odd at first, then painful. As I hammered and dug to get the house and garden in shape, the age-old question behind all questions kept coming back to me: Who am I? What am I?

Pounding away at a two-by-four one day, I remembered some feelings from years before, an event of some sort in New ...

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