Here's to Us
A participation trophy I consider meaningful, for anyone who needs it.
This week I took the initial baby steps toward two things I’ve long felt stuck on—
-related book and podcast projects I’ve been loosely talking about forever—and instead of cheering myself on, I defaulted to being hard on myself.“About time,” my inner taskmaster hissed. “What the hell have you been doing all these years?”
Initially I was chastened, and didn’t dare answer back. My inner taskmaster really has my number. But then I did a little meditation, and a reply bubbled up from my depths.
“Actually, I’ve been doing a hell of a lot, through a hell of a time, thank you very much.”
When I tried to quantify “a hell of a time,” what bubbled up was “ten years.” I’m 59 and have been working my butt off for basically four decades to earn and maintain a tenuous seat at the publishing/media table. (Mine’s a rickety folding chair wedged in at the back of the room.) But this past decade, ever since a horrific monster terrifyingly entered the American political stage, it’s all been so much more difficult. Merely focusing on work has been a major hourly feat since you-know-who announced his candidacy in June, 2015, a challenge that’s only worsened since January 20th of this year.
Nevertheless I persisted and all that, and I’ve produced a hell of a lot of work as a writer, editor, teacher, and publisher. But there are always more things I want to do, and I’m pretty sure that if my adrenal system weren’t on constant high alert for the past ten years, I would have come closer to realizing these two particular projects much sooner.
But let me go back to the first sentence of the above paragraph, because what I want to do in this post is pause and acknowledge how much I’ve done, in spite of that fucker wreaking more and more havoc on us, and to invite you all to do the same for yourselves. Historically, constitutionally, I’ve always been hard on myself. But I believe the stress of the past decade, and the time warp of the pandemic, have made it easier than usual to lose track of just how much I’ve actually done.
If you, like me, tend to be very demanding of yourself and lose sight of your achievements, please take a moment to think about how much you’ve managed to do in the past ten years, despite working under these terrifying conditions. (Feel free to tally in housework, childcare, eldercare, emotional labor, and more. I mean, I painted my goddamned garage, and spent six nights taking care of my mom in the hospital while sleeping on a cot in her room, for chrissakes, just to name a couple of non-work-related work items. Please figure these kinds of things in for yourself, too.)
You can do a mental accounting of all you’ve achieved since the rapist-in-chief put the moves on our country, or maybe write it down so you can look at it. Come to think of it, that’s what I’m going to do, catalog it all on paper, and really look at it.
Of course, then I run the risk of my inner taskmaster accusing me of workaholism, as she alternatively likes to do, shaming me for “trying too hard.” She is a piece of work, that inner taskmaster. I do work a lot. Honestly, in the hours when I can get myself to concentrate, it’s my only reliable distraction from all the horrible noise.
I happen to have meditated after the last time my inner taskmaster accused me of workaholism, and what bubbled up from my depths was this:
“Yeah, I work hard. I’m lucky to have work that I love, which is right now sustaining me. Who knows how long it will last? I’m going to keep going gangbusters at this as long as it remains viable, so please back off.”
What I’m doing is labor. It requires a lot of effort, and frequent emailing with a lot of different people, and staying organized, and promoting the work on social media. But by and large I am producing the equivalent of two blog posts most days1. That workload is actually pretty manageable. It is a lot less work than I used to do when I was ghostwriting and adjuncting, often at the same time. It’s less work than I did at my last job—at most of the jobs and gigs I’ve had.
It would all be a hell of a lot more manageable if I weren’t living through this non-stop, ever-worsening horror show, and I’m sure the same is true for many of you.
So I get a trophy, and you get a trophy, and you, and you… We’ve worked so hard. We deserve it.
Although the work is more significant on days when I’m reading and editing people’s personal essays.
Whenever I feel I haven't accomplished much, I update my resume. I did this for 40 years, professionally, and now do it solely for myself. Seeing a list of achievements, and remembering all the circumstances I survived, remind me I actually do deserve a trophy. Thanks, Sari!
We editoilers are adept at envy, but not so good at self-love. Maybe that’s because we’re in a field that encourages us to say “Look at me! Look at me!” to justify our existences. Is that sick, or what? My friend Steve is a potter who leaves his work on a stone wall outside his studio, for passersby to take. It’s his way of keeping his focus on the work, not the rewards or accolades. Or god forbid the <<commerce>>…which is tough if you want to make a living doing this stuff! But still, his message is strong. Do the work for the right reasons, and allow the self-accolades to build. In theory. I sure hope so.