Sick of Myself

Posted on February 20, 2008


I am annoying the shit out of myself today. The last 4 days, really. I totally haven’t done anything productive, except make Kris a video for his birthday, which, while fun and creative, doesn’t necessarily count as work. The problem, I think, is that it’s so easy to get stuck in my own head while working from home. In an office, I was always pleasantly distracted by everyone else’s shortcomings, inefficiencies, moronic ideas, and bad days. Now I have nothing to observe but my own flaws, and they are not pretty.

The other day, another distracted day in fact, I closed my eyes at my desk and asked myself how I imagined spending my day if I considered myself “successful”. The answer was writing. Of course, it has always been writing. I wrote my first poem at age five. I only remember the last line: “There are no more bubbles except just for me/how lucky, how lucky, how lucky can I be.” I mean, genius. Obviously a riveting piece on bubbles. Years later, I promptly abandoned the whole writing dream when I wasn’t immediately given a job as a magazine editor out of college. Remember how pleasant the early 20s were? I got a forward once when I was 24 or whatever about the “quarter life” crisis. Oh, how it resonated with me. How gay. So I did what all frustrated writers do – I became an English teacher. And then I did what all people who hate kids do – I worked in the corporate sector. And then I did what all people who hate working in the corporate sector do – I went to work in non-profits. And then I did what all people who have no idea what the fuck they are doing with their lives do – I applied to grad school.

So, five years, several different career attempts and a master’s degree later, I find the bulk of the work I do for our startup venture is writing. Which should be thrilling, invigorating, inspiring even. I feel like I should wake in the morning and kiss the earth that I can spend the day writing, be it on subjects I have varying degrees of expertise with. No matter. I can write. No more meetings. No busy work. No asinine coworkers. Just me, my computer, and my words.

What was that last part? Oh, the words. Fuck, that part sucks. Because I did not give myself the chance to pursue this dream earlier, I am totally unprepared for what to do when I get stuck. What to do when I have nothing to say. What to do when the writing sucks, or is just so-so. So I spent this morning wishing I had a meeting to go, so I could pretend to be doing work. Pretend to be present, productive. But while it’s pretty easy to fake it in an office, it is hard to lie to yourself at home. When the same word count is on the document at the end of the day.

I either need a magic productivity pill or the incredible ability to lie to myself. Fast.

Posted in: writing