Why That Favor I'm Doing You Isn't Done Yet

John Scalzi hit one out of the park today with his "10 Things to Remember About Authors" post. I want to replace 'author' with 'artist/art director/writer' and send the entire thing to oh… hmm… about 40 people. Only I'd call it "10 Reasons Why That Favor I'm Doing You Isn't Done Yet."

Especially this bit:

3. Authors have lives: Writing is not all we do. …

…we authors also have some required and desired physical and mental activities. We need to eat, sleep, poop, (somewhat more rarely) exercise and (even more rarely, alas) get laid. We may also choose to pursue activities that have no immediate profitable purpose but which refresh our brains through amusement: Watching TV, playing sports, arguing with people about absolutely pointless things online, collecting stamps, traveling, attending conventions or conferences, staring at pictures of other nekkid people, and so on and so forth. Likewise, there are some things we would prefer not to do but have to anyway, like take out the trash, do the laundry, pay the bills, call up publishers/editors and ask where our damn money is, be civil to people we don’t like but have some reason not to say “kindly piss off, would you?” to, attend meetings or therapy, and so on. While none of these things is directly related to writing, it’s likely without doing them, our interest and/or capacity for writing might be in some way compromised.

And beyond these things are the “Life is a drunk driver and you’re the poor bastard pedestrian what just stepped into the crosswalk” items … because it’s hard to be creative/funny/interesting/engaged in writing when your world is falling apart around you. This isn’t asking for an extra dollop of sympathy. It’s pointing out that being creative often works best in congenial surroundings.

Preach it, brother!

I sometimes mention on this blog that I have about 16 free hours a week, once all my work obligations, classes, homework for classes, and chores and commuting are done. Seriously. 16-20 is about right, and that's with usually only sleeping for 4-5 hours a night. I have to cram in social time and favor-doing into those hours. Factor in that I'm surrounded by people for whom face time = love, and I feel like I'm constantly disappointing people.*

So trying to jam in doing favors for people is… well, tough. Very tough. On the order of mucking out the Augean Stables tough. And all I've got is a thimble. Be patient. I'll get there. Eventually.

*I'm not one of those people. The amount of love I feel for someone has very little to do with how often I see them in person, and a lot more to do with how much I talk to them. If I'm making the sacrifice of my free time to spend face time with you because I know you like me to do that -- I like you a LOT. Not even my mother sees me as much as she wants, and she lives less than five miles from me. If, however, I'm chatting with you on IM and calling you and emailing you -- I'm very, very fond of you.

anxiety attacks

You might have noticed I haven't been blogging much this year. And you might even have been curious about why.

A few reasons:

First, the very small measure of Internet fame I have (such as it is) is difficult to adjust to. Some things have happened that made me quite leery of posting much of anything. Not like I was exactly hiding under my desk or anything, but every time I'd think of something to write about, a voice inside my head said, Are you really sure you ought to, given X and Y? and I'd reply: Yeah, probably best not to.

For starters, the Weirdly Persistent Fan seriously creeped me out. While it's great to have fans of my art, I'd prefer that fans of my art, in the future, refrain from mentioning my breasts. Not that I'm a prude; it's just seriously disconcerting when I don't expect it. So let me make this excruciatingly clear:

The only people I want to have conversations about my breasts with are: 1-my ob/gyn; 2-the lovely woman who fits me for my custom bras; and 3-anyone I happen to be naked with. Maybe with 4-my close women friends, if the subject comes up. Notice how 'person masquerading as a potential client' is not in any of those four categories.

Are we all clear on this now?

Good.

I also suspect that my marked increase in Twitter followers is solely because some prominent Twitterers follow me. Seriously, kids, I'm not that interesting and am having problems being witty enough to live up to their standards. Also, you probably ought to read the Fry Standards for Twitter, as well as my Best Internet Acquaintance's post on the subject. [Modify as needed, as I don't have an agent or anywhere near that amount of fame.]

The second reason: work has been hell. People at Saltmine U are incredibly nervous about their jobs. People are being asked to retire, there's talk of layoffs, and generally, people are scared. And scared, stressed people are not at their best. Which generates Drama with a capital D. Wading through all of that each week has been… well, less than fun.

Reason the third: speaking of Drama, a lot's been going on in my personal life, all around me. I've been trying to keep my head up, maintain my integrity, and navigate some seriously treacherous waters. I'll say only this: it's hard to find genuine people in LA, and that gets exponentially harder when in Hollywood. Oy.

The last, and most overwhelming reason: I've been working through some massive anxiety attacks about my writing and art. And my design. And whether or not I'm a good art director and boss. I've always been prone to a fairly normal level of creative anxiety that goes with being an overachiever and perfectionist, but now it's bad. Horribly bad. All-I-can-do-to-pick-up-and-clean-my-brushes bad. In an email this morning, I wrote:

I also worry every single day. I worry that my writing sucks. I worry that my paintings suck. I worry that my designs suck; I worry that I'm a bad art director and bad boss. I worry that I'm not a real artist or a real writer or a real designer, and no matter how much external validation I get, it never stops me worrying for longer than a couple of days. I am so fucking lame that way. The rare times I do mention the awards I've won or the things I've published, or who I've done art for, I immediately feel like a bragging jerk for even bringing them up.

I feel like if I were a real artist, I'd be doing nothing but art. Or if I were a real writer, I'd be doing nothing but writing. Or if I were a real art director, I'd be working for a glamourous ad agency, not [redacted]. While most of my friends are creative people, none of them do more than one creative thing for a living, and it makes me feel really alone in this weird way that I can't quite explain. It's like having all the normal worries about being good at your art, and they can relate to me on that front… but then there's also the worries about not being really good at much of anything because I do a few different kinds of art, and they just don't get that.

Which is true; they don't get it. Instead, I get long, well-intended speeches about how lucky I am to be so talented at more than one thing. Then I feel like I'm just whinging like a spoiled brat about the horrors and strain of being able to do more than one thing, and resolve to never mention it ever again. Not exactly helpful.

I'm managing to still produce what I need to, and meet deadlines, but it's a Herculean effort. Between my anxiety, and being drained from dealing with Drama, and Weirdly Persistent Fan, and talking people at work down off ledges… I'm so exhausted creatively that mustering up the creative wherewithal to write witty posts is beyond me.

Besides, I can barely manage the witty Tweets.

After I wrote that email this morning, though, I realized that those four reasons weren't really enough to let them keep on stopping me, and I should really just get the hell out of my own way…

…and get back to this metric butt-ton of pretty trash I need to make.

A pretty good day

I cannot tell you how relieved I am that it is 65F at 6 p.m., and I can open up all the windows in the house this evening. I'm also relieved that I'm on the mend from the Horrid Ailment which lurked behind me for weeks and finally sprang late Christmas Eve. I'm very appreciative of the time off from Saltmine U.-- having gone in yesterday means I can enjoy the week ahead with a clear conscience, and not worry about a mountain of undone work looming over me, only to collapse on Monday morning.

Today I ran into my grandmother at the bank, and for a moment, felt as if I were in a Wodehouse story, as we both exclaimed over the novelty of seeing each other, and then had coffee together. I felt as if any second my aunt would show up, insisting i go scoff at a cow creamer. The Magna Mater of the family is now all caught up on the comings and goings of each of my friends, and so the goal of a proper visit has been achieved. It's not lost on me that I lived only four miles from her for the better part of 17 years, and so of course didn't run into her until I moved 22 miles north, and just happened to be in the old neighborhood. My family is best done in very short doses, and singly; if you put more than three of us in a room, the potential for neurosis multiplies geometrically by the number of people >1. It is also probably not a coincidence that the Horrid Ailment attacked minutes after I got home from the family's holiday celebration, where there were 10 of us.

But I'm back in the land of the living, and very happy to finally be eating, after an 86-hour fast. Well, more like a 100-hour fast, as my attempt to break it on Sunday went spectacularly badly, and Monday... Alright, a 124-hour fast. To celebrate, I checked out the Super H mart new my house, and marveled at the glories of an upscale Korean market. Their produce section was spectacular, and meat is marinating as I write this, for a serious fry-up for dinner.

My holiday card will most likely be a New Years Day card, as spending the better part of four days in bed did put a massive dent in my creative plans. Tomorrow is the Dread New Year party, and I look forward immensely to watching my friends drink way too much and say inappropriate things; usually my job at parties.

I leave you with the sound of my dog crunching happily away on stale tortilla chips from the Yule party.