Some people live in the past. I’ve spent years living in the future in my mind.

Whatever I was doing was a means to an end. It was a train trip to some better destination.

During the one year I spent working in public school, I used every single one of my prep periods to research what I might do next, from teaching English in China to moving to Nashville or LA to be a professional musician.

Five years ago, I took a trip to a resort on the Andaman Sea, in the south of Thailand.

My intention was never to have a beach vacation. I have very pale skin and burn easily. Instead, I planned to spend my time writing a book.

Once I got there, I realized that I may as well have been at a Motel Six five miles from my home — I was just sitting at a desk, typing.

Recently, I had a doctor’s appointment to go to in another city because we live at the edge of the earth.

In preparation for this three-hour round trip, I took my car to the shop.

The mechanic came back with a list of codes so long that he didn’t bother to check all of them. “This car is not safe to drive,” he said. And the implication was that it wasn’t worth fixing.

The other day, a student, April, came to me in tears.

She had had an unpleasant interaction with another student during Discretionary Time, which is the period in which students can work on the assignments and projects of their choice.

The other student told April to do her work, and April did not like that.

"I just feel so mad!" she said. "I want to go home."