It's Still A Job
On realizing I'm still happiest when I'm not working, despite pursuing my greatest passion.
For the first time ever, I’m being honest with myself: I love doing nothing. I am most at peace when I’m at home, snug in my oversized pajama shirt. Currently, said nightshirt is official Jimmy Buffett concert merch I purchased from his website. Yes, I'm in a state of pure bliss when wearing my “Fruitcakes on Tour” tee, in bed, watching some mediocre television or playing a stupid game on my phone... often both at once.
Honestly, I’m the kind of bitch who will complain that her back hurts from relaxing too hard. Relaxing is what I relish more than any other activity and yet enjoying this level of relaxation is socially frowned upon. I've yet to receive a “way to go” for my work watching an entire season of Dexter in one night -- something I just did if anyone actually wants to congratulate me, by the way.
There’s a misconception that staying in your apartment to do nothing is somehow not enjoying life. For me, this is when I’m living my best life. I’m forced to pay rent on the damn place, so why not make the most of it and really get my money’s worth? I savor the moments when I’m cooking, or taking a hot shower, or simply existing in the space I’ve carefully curated to be the perfect extension of who I am at my core. My apartment is colorful and soft and full of weird and horny art. I have a hamster and a dog and two Megatouch machines I obtained specifically for playing erotic photo hunt. My living room is also my bedroom and yet, somehow, I don’t feel cramped here. I feel at home. So, again, why do I feel a twinge of guilt in embracing this?
There are lots of reasons we refrain from celebrating the non-act of doing nothing, but at the root of most of them is the mentality that not only must we work to live, but also that, to truly succeed in life, we live to work. Sure, depression is probably also a major factor for many people but I don’t think I’m depressed. Laziness is and always has been a part of me, but I’ve always felt I must suppress my more slothful urges. Is it even laziness? Sloth? Really, it’s that if we can’t afford to relax then we’re being lazy. The privilege of doing nothing comes from “earning” it (or more often, having inherited it). Through this lens, I haven’t earned my downtime yet and thus I’m a lazy piece of shit. I’m still relatively broke and don’t have a retirement plan other than hoping I might one day win some sort of big lawsuit (fingers crossed for a previously undiscovered side effect from my birth control). However, there’s yet another facet of guilt attached to it for me and it stems from my choice to follow my artistic passions instead of going the “safer” path of a more stable, salaried career.
Following our artistic dreams comes bundled with the implicit notion that we’re sacrificing security and safety because we simply can’t go a day without creating art. Being an artist is romanticized in such a way that it’s treated like a calling. An uncontrollable need to create for creation’s sake. To bring thoughts and ideas into the world in these stunning and brilliant ways that no measly scientist or economist or philosopher ever could. Here’s the reality, though: if you’re lucky enough to get to a place where people hire you for your art, art becomes a day job. You clock in and clock out. More often than not, you work for paychecks more than for the thrill of creating. Capitalism always wins, baby!
Does this mean I don’t enjoy writing or performing? Not at all. I love it. You know when I love it most, though? When I’m writing whatever the fuck I want in this newsletter. When I’m writing scenes for a script I know will probably never get sold. When I’m hosting a bar show with my best friend and there’s only four people in the crowd, but we’re just saying stupid shit and making ourselves laugh. Basically, when I’m creating for the sheer love of it, despite the fact it may or may not provide me with any sort of monetary gain. This, however, is not a realistic world to live in for someone who has to pay rent and bills. To profit from the aforementioned things I love, the game has to be played. The meetings have to happen. Shit has to be pitched and sold and unimportant things must be taken very seriously. You have to be friends with the right people and essentially be in a constant state of selling yourself. As a product, you have to package yourself in a way that is uniquely “you” but also hip to the current trends and fads. You have to rely on others for money and that reliance diminishes your artistic freedom.
Learning all about the relentless pursuit of comedy as a career, I tried for many years to cater to the demands of my industry overlords. For years I was in a constant state of concern over ways to attract attention to my work. I was desperate to follow the path I was told was THE PATH to creative success. From day one, it was laid out that I must go to open mics every day until I started getting booked for shows. Then I must strive to be booked on said shows frequently, until I get noticed by “the industry” and from there I must do everything in my power to get a gig writing on a television show or, better yet, selling one. That’s when you’ll officially have “made it”.
What I wish I knew then was the reality of most TV writing gigs: it’s a glorified office job. You work long hours and sit in a room and have to go through a bunch of bureaucratic bullshit just like all the other cubicle workers of the world. Yes, there are perks, like maybe winning some fancy awards and eventually being able to afford a home in Los Angeles or getting more Twitter followers or whatever… but most of these gigs, from what I’ve been told, are simply gigs. Monotonous, short-term employment. These jobs can be great, but they can also be soul-sucking. They can be fun and rewarding, but they can also be the reason you hate getting up in the morning.
Is that to say I’d never take a TV writing job? Of course the fuck not. I would also like to one day own a two-million-dollar house that’s probably only slightly larger than my current studio apartment. But I guess what I’m saying is, I wish the negatives would have been more clearly disclosed when I was being sold on the path to comedy writing success instead of the overwhelmingly glorified dream job I was led to believe in. I resent the idea that if you’re one of the lucky few who get to make your artistic passion the thing that pays the bills, that you’ll be in a fixed state of looking forward to the day ahead. That’s not the case, and it doesn’t have to be.
A big part of me regrets pursuing this as a real job, but I knew choosing something else would leave me little-to-no time to actually work on projects I’m passionate about. With every route, there’s a different set of benefits and a different set of sacrifices. For most of us without the benefit of generational wealth, there is no easy choice. And when we choose to catch our breath or recharge our batteries, it’s perceived as decadent, or worse, a waste of precious time.
I love art, and I love rest. There are days I don’t want to make anything or be funny, and I don’t want to force myself to keep powering through that. A lot of the time, I just want to be in bed holding back tears while watching reruns of “Medium”. I used to shame myself for the times I lacked any motivation or desire to create. Maybe I’m not a true artist. But now I understand that my particular style of work and play looks different than what I was told it should be. Some days I like working, some days I hate it. I don’t care to be booked on a show every night of the week anymore. I love performing, but I'm perfectly fine with keeping it up one to two times a week. The so-called “grind” is often superfluous. The grind makes being an artist strenuous and taxing. I don’t want work to be my life. I no longer want my job to define me. To be sure, my work is a part of who I am, but not all of who I am.
My priorities have changed, I guess. I once believed that being a successful comedian and writer was the only thing that mattered in life. Really, that it was all I had to offer to the world. If I failed at that, I failed as a person. Who would give a shit about me if I wasn’t successful? That’s the kind of mentality a city like Los Angeles fosters -- your worth as a human being directly correlates to your career success. For people who all claim to be socialists now, they sure do love feeding into this capitalist rhetoric. I can’t blame them (or, rather, us), entirely. The whole system is fucked. But maybe it doesn’t have to be?
In this coming year, I’m going to try something new: laying back and seeing what the fuck comes my way. Not trying to force anything or over-exert myself to make something happen. I don’t know when the next gig will come, and I’m exhausted trying to make it happen. I’m ready to embrace the slowness of life. Should the “big things” I still wish to accomplish happen, I’ll be ecstatic of course. However, I’ll equally bear in mind that at the end of the day, a dream job is still just a job.
Too many truths
A enjoyable piece as usual.
I was seriously having a parallel conversion to this with my little Brother this Moring.
It's spotted over the globe, but in North America, The United States specifically; simple pleasures of unproductivity are shamed.
I don't "love" my job. Yet, it is a means to an end to my little condo that I have made my own beloved space. A hot bath, a book, records, my 3 Siamese Cats, quiet-you get it.
If this is enough, and enough is seemingly harder and harder to hang on to, Podcasts, FB Ads, and more tell me how I should rise and grind.
I should shoot for being some sort of "Sigma" Male-whatever the fuck that is. I won't be the next Elon Musk but I should be trying. Why am I not preparing for the next workday for 2 hours when I get home? Why am I not developing an app? I am not valuable. I am wasting my life. Am I?
It's mine. The zeitgeist (not trying to sound impressive, just don't know what else to call it and don't want to say "media" or "culture") tells me if I am not constantly working to be "productive," remodeling my kitchen for the people to enjoy after I move out, trying to get a credit score of 800 so I can buy a house I don't feel like dusting, or travel even when I can't get paid time off I am a waste of skin and time and existence.
But, sexual freedom and pleasure are championed. I can fuck who I want consensually in the dark, anyway we choose, trying to find something after the little death when I am alone even next to someone else. For 2 - 10 mins I do what I am told is acceptable pleasure.
I won't get made fun of of get shamed for getting laid. But I will if I want to watch "Nailed It" all Sunday and not leave my couch. What went wrong?