Why We Work Hard

I work (relatively) hard not because I believe in the American dream (although I do) but because I believe it makes my life easier.

There's one obvious benefit to hard work: mo' money, mo' money. As much as it pains me to admit, money really does make life easier and can contribute to our happiness . . .  at least up to $75,000 annually. After all, it's pretty nice to not have to stress out about paying bills and to be able to sometimes not buy only the store brand at the grocery store and hard work's about the only way I've found to avoid going into shock when both my health insurance and car insurance bills are due in the same month.

Of course, the downside of hard work is less free time and that means every once in a while we need a break from the daily grind if we want to avoid total burnout. Last week's trip to Michigan, provided me with a much needed break (although I did spend much of my time away knit, knit, knitting for the Etsy shop). Then, as is apt to happen after the excitement of airports, meals out, and time away, returning to said daily grind proved a little rough during the first days back in the office.

Yesterday, when I sat down for my daily four hours of morning office work (for thee day job) I found myself loathing the whole experience. I checked the clock every couple minutes, each time horrified at how little time had passed. There were so many other things I wanted to be doing (although now that I think of it, I can't really name any of those pressing, urgent things that were consuming me yesterday morning - maybe checking Pinterest?) and the last thing I felt like doing was answering emails and editing contracts. After an interminable 9 o'clock hour, suddenly I found it was nearly noon and then it was lunchtime and time for me to turn to more personal projects.

As I wrapped up afternoon finishing up a glut of housework such as watering plants, finally taking down the outdoor Christmas lights, and cleaning the bathroom, I couldn't help but feel pleased that I'd stuck with my morning work, despite the initial unpleasantness. If I'd putzed away the morning instead of doing the office work in the morning, I'd have had to have done the office work in the afternoon and then I'd still have a dirty bathroom today.

So I believe in hard work because it generally leads to nice things, like clean bathrooms. Hard work helps us reach our goals, it inspires us to be more ambitious, and I do think it makes us happier in the end. As much as I wanted to scroll through Pinterest yesterday morning, the long term result of opting for social media over actually work would have been cranky, disappointed Ada last night. 

The brilliant C. Hope Clark (if you're a writer and not subscribed to her free weekly e-newsletter Funds for Writers, do it now!!) wrote this argument for hard work and full days in her latest editorial:

"When you land contracts, for magazines and publishers, you are temporarily owned by editors. They expect you to jump, and jump with polish. When your writing career speeds up, people expect you to perform.

"Start now, while you're in your temporary lull, and develop a habit. Create projects. Assign them goals. And show up to work everyday. Because in the future, you'll be expected to hit the ground running, and that's hard to do if you've just been lying around." 
 
So when my dearest pal, procrastination, swings by for an impromptu date, I like to turn up "Hard Work" from Fame the Musical (so cheesy, I know, but near and dear to my heart because it was the first musical I ever saw in London - in the Aldwych Theatre on the Stand in April 2003) and get down to business.



Happy Monday!
 

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On Participation Awards

We all know that many critics of the Millenial generation think we're a little lazy and spoiled. According to the critics, we received way too many participation awards as children and our parents and teachers focused too much on our self-esteem for us to really be hard-working and contributing members of society now that we're all grow'd up. (Note: apparently the fact that Baby Boomers hijacked the 9-5 work system doesn't factor into Millenials' floundering . . . ?)

I have a fair share of participation awards tucked away somewhere in my childhood bedroom: certificates from speech competitions and plays, gaudy pedestal trophies from soccer seasons, pins, badges and pucks from my hockey playing days.  While I was active child, I was by no means an athlete. While I had a good imagination, I was by no means an actress. The only merit I used to "earn" this myriad of awards was a willingness to "stick it out for the long haul" - to play the entire sports season or make every rehearsal and performance. I didn't particularly excel at any of my extracurricular childhood pursuits, but, by gum, I did them anyway.

Despite five years on swim team, I don't think I have a single swimming "trophy" in my collection

I've been thinking a bit about participation awards lately. Mostly, I suppose, because it's been such a manic month in which - I kid you not - I have had a grand total of three days off. On Tuesday night, as I submerged six pints of homemade barbeque sauce (the last item on my "to can" list for the summer) into the hot water bath canner, I said to Andy, "You know, I'm kind of proud of myself. I've done everything this month that I'd said I do."

It's true - over the last month +, I've worked two jobs, kept up with the garden and Etsy, made rather feeble attempts to keep my online content fresh, and didn't shirk out of single one of my freelance writing obligations. If it sounds like bragging, it's really not meant to be. I say it more with a sense of wonderment than pride: I did do it all.

Obviously, going at a breakneck pace isn't desirable for the long haul. The schedule I've kept over the last month is really bloody stupid and I don't deserve congratulations from myself or others for maintaining it. It's a schedule good on the bank account, hard on everything else.

And this week I've felt myself wearing out. I've needed a lot more sleep than I would in normal circumstances. I'm emotional and irritable.But it's all ending soon. I keep whispering the number one under my breath. One more set of "days off" spent working at a second job. One more month of full time work.

You know, I don't think the participation awards I received as a child made me lazy and I don't think they were totally without merit.

Because sometimes just sticking it out is laudable. We don't have to be doing mindblowing things all the time. We don't have to be the best of the best. In fact, the best that most of us can offer the world is simply doing what we said we'd do.

We're adults now. There's no one handing out needless awards that will just gather dust and eventually be tossed in the trash or make awkward appearances at a garage sale. But if there was I'd stand up and accept my participation award for this month gone by with pride.

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What Do You Say to Taking Chances?

In honor of the new Glee season (just added the final four discs from season 2 to the Netflix queue . . . or should I say *ahem* Qwikster queue), here you go:



So what do I say to taking chances? Well, I'm kind of a risk adverse person. Sure, I've had my share of brave moments, but for the most part the thought of being uncomfortable makes me uncomfortable. Fear of  failure tends to debilitate me. 

I've spend a good amount of time on this blog talking about freelance writing and the day when I'll be self-employed with my writing. Obviously, I'm not there yet. Although I tell myself I'm being prudent, that I'm taking my time and building up clients and work so when I do go to writing full-time, it won't be so scary, after a certain point, prudence turns into stalling.

And stalling is a way to keep all those little voices in my head at bay. What if there's not enough work? What if there's not enough money? What if I . . . *gulp* fail?

We've reached the point in the season at work where it's time to have "the talk."  If you've ever temped or worked seasonally, you know what I'm talking about. "The talk" is that wonderful conversation with your work superiors where you talk about future plans like they're something concrete and you make important and unalterable decisions about contract extensions.

While theoretically, I should have had all summer to think of what I'll say during this talk and whether or not I'll sign on for another year, the truth is, I'm as muddled about how I feel about the whole thing now as I was in May. A big part of me wants to kiss this charade of me pretending to be a museum curator good-bye. The less impulsive side of me tells me I'm not quite ready to be off all by myself in work world yet.   Where will the money come from?

"Maybe don't garden next year," my friend Sarah said on Monday as I regaled her once again about my torn feelings about my employment options. "Sign the contract, work at the museum again next year, but spend your spare time focused on getting yourself set up for freelancing."

Don't garden?

It was horrifying thought. You mean, I'd have to give up something I love in order to get where I claim I want to be? How would I make it through the long winter if I didn't have seeds to start at the end of March?

But Sarah, who is by far more career focused and as such, much more successful than I am, had a point. I've been distracting myself with hobbies: canning, gardening, knitting. As much as I love them, as much satisfaction as they give me, I might just be using them as crutches. I could keep complaining about not having enough time to have it all, or I could . . . alter how I use my time. I'll repeat: it was a horrifying . . . horrifying thought. She'd just pointed out that I was the stick in the mud who created the situations I like to complain about.

So, what do I say to taking chances?

I'm not quite sure yet. Change is as scary as chances. But sometimes they're both necessary.

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Because That's A Laugh . . .

I must be on a "not my job" kick, because I suddenly feel the need to share with you all another career confession. This one's pretty silly.

You see, a couple years back, disillusioned by the terrible job market I found after college, I decided I needed to go to school . . . to get my elementary teaching certificate.

Let me explain. The "decision" came about a year and a half after college graduation, when I was in my hometown, living in my childhood bedroom. A few months before that I'd ended my first long-term relationship and had almost immediately started a less than great "rebound" relationship which mainly involved me throwing myself at someone who really wasn't willing or able to be what I wanted him to be. I was ready to get on with my life, to go all confidently in the direction of my dreams like Thoreau recommends, but on the way between here and dreamland, apparently I'd lost my map. When at the proverbial fork in the road, I figured, best to go back to school.

At the time, teaching didn't sound like a bad gig. I like kids and I'm actually pretty good at developing educational materials. For several years during high school, I'd coached little munchkins (K-2) in hockey and soccer. I'm not going to say I was great at it, but I wasn't half bad either.And summers off for writing? Heck yes!

But, needless to say, I didn't go back to school for my teaching certificate. It's shame really, because sometimes I really regret not getting to deal with situations like this on a daily basis. 

Yes, these children are taking turns strangling each other. I mean, how precious is that?! 

We keep having field trip at work and whereas each field trip goes a little better than the last, I'm always amazed by just how much crowd control is involved in public schooling and how little "schooling" gets done. I mean, were we this bad on our school field trips? (Of course we were!) I'm also always pretty astounded by how bad I am at getting the kids to listen and get my point across. Although I assumed I'd be a natural at the whole teaching thing, the truth is that teaching does not use one single skill from my "best skill set."

So no, I don't have a teaching certificate and you know what? I'm okay with that.

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Writers and Exercise

Besides diets, one of the most ubiquitous New Year resolutions has to be to improve physical fitness levels. Personally, in 2011, I’m committing to battling the bulge of my tummy which every day more closely resembles that of Poppin’ Fresh (the Pillsbury Dough Boy). I had started some semblance of a workout routine in early December, but the holidays pretty well sabotaged the best of plans. Now, in the quiet lull of this year’s beginning, it’s time to reach for my free weights once again and start doing sit-ups.

But if you’re a writer, you’ve probably heard people talk about the whole “butt in chair” approach to the art. That is: if you’re constantly distracted by dirty dishes, laundry, Facebook, your blog, the landscape outside your window, etc. etc., you’re not being much of a writer. You’ve got to keep your butt in your chair, your fingers poised over the keyboard, if you’re going to be a productive writer.

On one hand we know we need to treat our bodies with respect. On the other hand we know we have to treat writing with respect. Making time for each of these things takes away time from the other thing. Which begs the question:

Can you resolve to be both physically fit and a productive writer for 2011?

I say, you can’t afford not to be. Unless you’re a niche writer who wants to spend their time writing about joint pain and the slow process of their body falling apart, your writing will benefit from your being physically fit. Simply put: writers need to exercise.

I do know how it goes. When you’re worried about getting in so many hours of work done every week, it’s easy to force yourself to stay stuck in front of the computer for an entire day. In these dim winter days, it seems that sun starts setting before we even have a chance to contemplate getting outside for a walk. Before we know it, we’ve managed to spend a series of days with minimal exercise and fresh air. Although we think we’re doing what needs to be done to be successful writers, in actuality, metaphorically chaining yourself to your desk can be detrimental on many levels.

For starters, that butt in the chair starts to get larger and larger. And for another thing, things grow harder and harder. Your mind gets all murky. Your writing grows dull. You start feeling stupid. And you get real, real cranky.

I find my writing rarely grows more inspired from the act of me sitting at my desk, staring into my laptop’s screen. Instead it’s during those quiet moments when I’m not training my mind on any one thing – doing the dishes, taking a shower, and, of course, exercise – that I think of the most things to write about and have the best ideas for a current WIP's direction. A large portion of my blog entries and commentaries are written in my head while walking to the mailbox.

Nathan Bransford posted on how exercise boosts creativity back in December. No writer truly benefits from growing mole-eyes at the computer. You need consistent amounts of fresh air and exercise to keep the writing enjoyable. 

You’ll feel better. Your writing will thank you. And that butt in the chair will stay a respectable size.

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Getting Your Feet Wet

Over these days off our friend Andrew is up for some canoeing, bbqing, and general Northwoods hanging out. This morning, Andy and Andrew decided to go down to fish lake trout in a nearby lake. Although I had plenty of work to get done at home, I decided to tag along.

Once we got to the canoe launch, I decided I didn’t want to get my feet wet. Although I had perfectly fine water proof sandals on, the thought of plunging my feet into mucky, cool water just didn’t sound pleasant. So I perched precariously on a small rock and tiptoed into the canoe while Andy and Andrew rolled their eyes.

The whole process reminded me of what I do every time I get a new freelance assignment. I’m always hot to trot with a new assignment, but when it comes to that initial phone call I hem and haw. I think of perfectly legitimate reasons to procrastinate the start of the project. I do whatever I can to put it off. I’m happy to do the assignment once I have all the material, it’s that first hurtle which poses the biggest risk to my success.

Back on the lake this morning, we paddled down to the east end of the lake and portaged into a designated trout lake. We set our lines and trolled down the lake. I succeeded only in hooking Andy’s line.

With no fish biting, we decided to head back home for the afternoon. At the portage landing, a swim seemed in order. So I stripped down to my swimsuit and jumped right in. Now how hard was that?

On the way back, it took all three of us paddling against the strong west wind to get us back to the car. As we cursed the wind and struggled to keep the canoe on course, I never once thought about my wet feet. If you’re willing to jump in, it seems the stuff that’s really hard isn’t so bad at all.

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