Monday, October 18, 2010

On Being a Time Miser and Undervaluing Writing

I stole two hours from Time today. (Imagine time as a cranky person who meters out moments for work and laundry and bedtime stories but can sometimes be distracted as we run off with a ten-second burst of laughter, an hour to doodle, or occasionally an entire date night tucked under our hoodies.) I'm on a modest crime spree this Monday morning, having snuck in an hour of alone time at The Creperie for breakfast and drawing. I was unsure how to spend my stolen hours, and thought the best use might be to start a load of laundry or to continue inking the drawing.

I sat down to flip idly through websites and eventually land on a decision (or realize yet another precious hour had been frivolously spent Facebooking.) Instead, I opened the post editor and am right now too far into a meta post to turn back. (Conventional wisdom amongst the chorus of critical imaginaries in my head is that people hate meta-blogging posts. Shut up; I'm writing it anydamnway.)

The thing is

I've been settling into a deeper and more complex relationship to this craft. Hobby. Occupation. Art. I've been appreciating the blog as an end in its own right, rather as a venue for art process notes or sales. I referred to myself as a writer recently, and without flinching or adding sort of. I was a blog author before I was an art seller on Etsy, or a spastic blurb generator on Twitter, or an oversharing Facebook junkie. I've been undervaluing the act and product of writing here. In my crazy brain, I'm always tallying minutes and assigning points to them. Teaching Molly a new idea carries good point value; wasting an entire week watching a four season series on Netflix carries a very shameful negative value. There are no actual numbers in my self-torture game- merely time wasted and time well-spent. I am a time miser. I am the old dude in the above allegory. Conceit. Whatever. (There are one or two lit profs in my head, too.)

My point is

that writing is an art, my writing is art, and I've resolved to assign an appropriately positive number of pretend points to the blog. I feel I may be shifting into a wordy phase out of an image phase as I sort through ideas and impressions. I'm frustrated (well, no shit...) about time and I really need to both manage mine better and let go of this pressure. I've got to stop being so cheap with my time and so insanely self-critical.

I have a great opportunity to talk through things (originally mistyped as thinks, which is adorably appropriate: I do need to re-examine my Thinks) with a mojo coach type and am hoping to get my brain wrenched open a bit. I had an epiphane with a friend last week. I told her she was younger than herself, and we giggled, but then she observed that I am "older" than myself. I worry too much. Really, really true.

Maybe the next 32 days after the Receiving Project, I will tell myself every day that I have permission, from the Universe, to be happy. And that I already am a writer. Perhaps I will do NaBloPoMo in November, but perhaps I will decide I don't have to have so much structure. Perhaps I'll even get comfortable with the idea of perhaps.

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