Public Comment

Many people, sometimes without realizing it, have lives filled with work. Brushing and flossing your teeth is work. Cleaning the kitchen is work. Checking the oil on one's car is work. In my case, my life is filled with various kinds of work. The effort to earn money at writing involves a lot. Not only is there the writing itself; I must keep track of where pieces are sent; I must read and understand any feedback** from editors explaining a rejection and benefiting from this if possible; I must analyze style and find ways to improve both style and content; and there is more--much more. And let's not forget the reality that almost any writer is competing with millions of Americans who lost their jobs to the pandemic and who've decided to become writers, because they now have the time. More than ever, my endeavor of writing feels like work. And a related activity is the upkeep of my computer. It is aged, and when new it was a cheapie. 

Early tomorrow morning I need to go to the laundromat because I'm without clean clothes. You can't function if you have nothing clean to put on. And you must be certain your car has gas. Additionally, I have a spouse. One hopes that my spouse and living with her doesn't feel like work. But I did need to give her a ride to the dentist today, in heavy traffic. I get massively stressed out from driving. And I normally take a nap in the middle of the day, which I could not do today. The lack of a nap was highly uncomfortable. 

At some point, I must decide "enough is enough." I have to take a rest. Maybe something doesn't get done, god forbid. Maintaining mental health needs to happen. In the past, getting and maintaining mental health was the big thing. Now it is sidelined because I have that established. But it still needs some amount of attention. And this entails, in some instances, stopping the work and getting some rest, or doing something pleasurable. A person can't live by work alone. You must do things you enjoy. I enjoy writing because it is a labor of love. But as I say, it is becoming increasingly like a job. 

Some people scoff at my assertion that I'm a writer. It takes internal work to minimize the harm this does to my mind. All I can say is "consider the source." 

...I am resuming this essay after letting it sit a few weeks. I just got back from the post office. I opted to delay going there earlier in the week because lack of sleep and a changed medication regimen that caused me fatigue. If I sit in the driver's seat of a car and if something doesn't feel right, the most I might do is to drive it around the corner to put the car in the carport. You can be impaired from psychiatric medication and fatigue. And although the illegality may not be precisely the same, the hazard of it is. 

In some instances, I can't do what is convenient for other people, what is expected, or what I think I'm supposed to be doing, because resting the body sometimes takes priority. Part of resting the body must be that you allow yourself to feel...good. 

In very recent times, I discovered an FM radio station that plays old rock, often tasteful stuff, that helps me feel good. For years, I've been a Classical Music nut. And while this is very cerebral and sometimes emotional, it doesn't speak to the part of me that really wants to relax. 

The musician is invariably the one that gets the girl. I'm not a musician, I'm a writer, and I will never become a musician. Where does that leave me? Music is also a spectator endeavor. Even listening to music when I'm shut in a room by myself, can do me some good. The other kind of music might be silence, in which I can hear myself think. 

It can't be all work. You'll die a young death that way. 

**If an editor gives personal feedback, consider yourself fortunate, because usually you'll receive only a form letter. 

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