No(w)
The gift arrives and the gift becomes the demon.
I’ve been telling everyone this is the year of no. No distractions, no excuses, no putting other things ahead of writing. No shaping my year around trips, projects or goals that aren’t writing-related. No taking on those social obligations, favors or commitments that are nice but not, actually, required.
My friends and family have not seemed crazy about this mantra, (weird, right? you don’t want me to say no to you for an entire year?!) but I have not been too concerned about their grumbles, since their objections were never the biggest threat to this resolution. The biggest threat is, obviously, me.
Me and my idea that a good artist is ruthless, clear, willing to sacrifice. I am none of these things. Try as I might, it seems I am not willing to stop cooking Thursday night dinners, or spontaneously taking one of the kids to a class they want to go to, or feeling that I should call that friend back. I cannot seem to stop battling with myself to find a good exercise routine, or stop trying to show up for protests and mutual aid actions. I’m not willing to stop these things because I’m not convinced they’re less important than writing.
I have always prided myself on keeping some sense of perspective. Nothing annoys me more than the artist who thinks their little project is so noble it justifies ignoring everything else. I’m not down with, and suspect I’m not capable of, a no that actually neglects the world around me. But where, exactly, is the line? And why, even in situations where it would pretty clearly be okay to say no, do I still struggle to say it?
One thing I’m noticing is that I get caught in other people’s perceptions that I have plenty of time. I was talking to my sister-in-law recently, who has three young kids. She was opining about how she wishes she had the freedom to travel, and suggesting various trips that Rory and I should take in her stead. This is not the first time we’ve had this conversation, and the implication always feels clear: that I should be making better use of my immense freedom. I always try to explain that I don’t have time, and end up feeling flustered, hearing how it sounds ridiculous and untrue, especially to someone who has such immense, concrete demands on her time. Listening to the awkward sound of my own words, I doubt my perception. Do I have plenty of time?
I feel this tension often — with friends, coworkers — the sense that some important chunk of my life is invisible. Of course they know I’m an artist, but on their mental map of my life it doesn’t take up much space. How could it? They don’t really see it, or interact with it. It’s there in the corner, a sort of vague placeholder, a cool personality trait. At that size, it does make my life look spacious! It’s hard to find the right words to explain that the invisible thing is actually what I’ve constructed my immense freedom around. That I want, desperately, for it to become visible, but the only way for that to happen is to look even more crazy than I already do — to give the invisible thing more time, more space, more belief.
So this has been my first task of the year, January’s project: saying no to other people’s perceptions of my time. This has brought an unexpected amount of relief, because it gives me permission to feel the time scarcity I actually feel. No, there isn’t enough time to finish a new draft this month and also revise that other play in time to submit to the deadline on the 1st and also do those other three applications and also try to get a meeting with so-and-so and also reach out to Lauren about the technology project and maybe make a flyer and look for venues and see if there’s any local funding we could get. Those are the things that should get done this month and no, there isn’t enough time for all of them, and what a relief to say so! The nice thing about time scarcity is that it’s a much easier challenge to work with than the belief that you are a lazy piece of shit, which is of course the fear that hides under my defensiveness about time. (If everyone thinks you have so much time, then it must be true, and if you have so much time and you’re still not succeeding then the only answer is you’re a lazy piece of shit.) The good thing about time scarcity is it’s just math. What do you have to work with. Ten til one Monday through Friday? Then the project is to defend that time. If you’re worried it’s not enough, okay, let yourself worry. But start to notice how it already feels like more time than you had before, when you were stuck in your cycle of guilt about your supposed surplus of time.
This was January’s project: allow it to be true that you do have demands on your time, and multiple people whose lives are intertwined with yours, and that it’s not a small thing to carve out fifteen hours a week for writing. Allow for that to be difficult. Allow for it to also maybe be enough.
And then I lost my job.
You WHAT?!
I know, what a thrilling plot twist! I got fired from my bartending job, which maybe I should have seen coming but I really did not. It turns out getting fired is just like a breakup: as you sort through some mixture of hurt, inconvenience and relief, you find yourself looking for the meaning, the mandate, inside this non-consensual life change. In this case it seems pretty obvious. Oh, you said this was the year when you were going to focus on your career? You said you don’t have enough time? Here you go. A near total, if temporary, opening of the aperture. A few weeks, maybe a month, of time flowing in all directions.
If, that is, you can avoid spending it all on indeed.com, the unemployment hold line, and crippling self-doubt. If you can avoid an existential crisis about what your long-term job plan is. If you can not spend a week considering going back to school only to decide against it. If you can stay out of the pit of gloom that tells you you are bound to waste this time. That you, and only you, could be gifted exactly what you said you needed and find a way to waste it.
And so the monster shape-shifts. The demon who tells you you’re not good enough finds a new way in. A gift arrives and the gift becomes the demon.
**
When I announced the year of no, Rory made a counter-proposal: the year of now. Since I was practicing saying no, I obviously rejected this proposal. (Plus, I suspected there was some mischief afoot, some fun plan he was trying to keep me from saying no to.)
But here I am in February, with the time, right now, to move things forward. And some part of me, some old but not insignificant part of me, is afraid.
Writing is a twisty, inefficient process. It’s true that it takes time, and time, and more time. If I actually want to get somewhere this year, then I have to build in time for all the setbacks, which does actually necessitate saying no to a lot of other things. But I’m also noticing how the hoarding of time can be a postponement strategy, a defense against the fear of just trying right now. I don’t know how to solve the problem of this play today, so instead of trying, I will focus on tetrising next week’s schedule to allot myself more time. Surely my future self will be braver, more capable.
No is hard, but now is harder. Now is the terror of getting the thing you asked for.
Maybe this week I won’t spend any more hours on writing than I did when I was employed. Maybe I will spend Monday through Friday, ten til one. As long as I don’t spend less, I consider that a victory. As long as I keep the demon of not-good-enough at bay for those hours, that is good enough.
And now I’m wasting my time trying to come up with words that start with n-o-w, wondering what the hell March will bring.
What a revelation your thoughts are. I hope this new time works with you and not against you.