"Things that interfere with writing well: Earning a living, especially by teaching."

-William H. Gass

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

3 a.m. blog

I had my last session with my therapist today. I have a therapist. Sometimes, when major life events come and go and they have yet to make themselves known on this blog, I feel like I've neglected something. Like a dog or a houseplant. One of the last things he, my therapist, told me was that my tendency to equate my "self" with my "work" was a little bit outside the norm, and that relating to people would be tough as long as I believed that everyone should define oneself in terms of one's job.

Hmm.

I'm conflicted in multiple ways on this one. First, how can I possibly WANT to relate to someone who spends 40 hours per week, minimum, doing something that isn't part of his/her identity? Two, if I make a living as a teacher, does that mean I'm not a writer? Sure, I write. I write the occasional blog and short story. Sure, my thought processes look like text on a page in my mind's eye. But, as I face the big three-zero approaching in only a matter of months, I have to wonder if the "writer" part of my identity isn't slowly dying.

I feel every day in terms of text. Usually, I have about six moments per day that seem to warrant narrative. Just before writing this I was sitting on my stoop, way past midnight, thinking about my identity. A skunk waddled across the neighbor's driveway toward me. I had had a lot of hummus and raw vegetables, which create a certain digestive imperative, and I raised one cheek and farted into the Boston night. The skunk ran in the other direction. I couldn't help thinking this was a naturally existing metaphor worth blogging about...but would I end up in front of the screen later? Or would I wash a few dishes, chuckle to myself, and end up in bed without typing a thing?

I dated a blogger once. A person who puts content on a blog five times per week or more. He asked me once, when I was trying to figure out whether or not a bit of content was worth putting out there for the "public", whether I was a writer or a blogger. I wasn't clear on the difference. He said that writers only let stuff out when it was ready; bloggers put stuff out without even spellchecking it. I said that I was a writer. Lately, I'm neither. It's past three a.m. now; I took a break to go for a bike ride around my neighborhood. It looks remarkably peaceful in the middle of the night.

I didn't spellcheck this, and I probably won't write anything else in weeks, except curriculum. Does that make me a blogger, a teacher, or a writer? I guess I should move past labels, but I'm all out of therapy sessions.

3 comments:

annie said...

I'm sure as hell glad my identity isn't associated with "Thank you for calling, this is Annie Houston, may I have your member id number please?"

Sara said...

I actually associate your identity with that all the time, annie.

Rev Sully said...

http://thechannelocho.blogspot.com/
Come to my Blog...right now. Just read the page, scan or peruse your choice. I hope I've entertained you...and shared my unique experience of coping in this world. I will give you a reason to keep writing, stay vital, and express it with clever wit & clarity! Well...I hope for clarity.

I for one love your Blog. You express yourself well in copy & pixel. You can't help but write. It's compulsion. Heed the call. Do your Duty is what the Gita tells me (thank Krhsna but iDigress...).

Stay scribbling. Look back on your own Blog and read it years later...this tapestry of your own life. In your very own "Gonzo" voice as well.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gonzo_journalism#Origin_of_the_term

crea shaakti,
Eric