I want to write. I do.
I want to circle the materials and start trying to fit them together. No matter how long it takes. I want to be doing that.
But I have to remind myself that I want it. Otherwise, it becomes a treadmill.
Back when I was running to try to lose weight, I hated running. But when it became a release, then I loved it. And also I lost weight…overnight, it seemed, with transgressive ease.
“What are you doing, exactly?”
“What’s the goal/theme of this project?”
“Are you writing a book?”
I don’t know. This project is just whatever it is. It’s me trying to be at work staying myself. Which is much harder than Aristotle makes it sound.
What should I be doing, instead of that? Making money? Making a difference?
We were also talking, Ian and Erin and I, about the Protestant work ethic, that adjures we put in our 40 years of long-suffering before we start enjoying life on our own peculiar terms. And that if wilful children must reverse the order, whatever creatively fulfilling occupation we enjoy in the first blush of life must be paid back in a long winter of discontent.
But is it the height of presumption to ask that we should never have to pay it back?
That it could instead be what we do?