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combating resistance, how to be miserable, writers day, HOW TO BE…
combating resistance
Aspiring artists defeated by Resistance share one trait. They all think like amateurs. They have not yet turned pro.
WHAT A WRITER'S DAY FEELS LIKE
wake up with a gnawing sensation of dissatisfaction. Already I feel fear. Already the loved ones around me are starting to fade. I interact. I'm present. But I'm not.
I'm not thinking about the work. I've already consigned that to the Muse.
What I am aware of is Resistance. I feel it
in my guts
I go through the chores, the correspondence, the
obligations of daily life.
how to be miserable
The artist must be like that Marine. He has to know how to be miserable.
He has to love being miserable. He has to take pride in being more miserable than any soldier or swabbie or jet jockey. Because this is war, baby. And war is hell
We get a paycheck. We work for money. We are professionals.
We show up every day. We might do it only because we have to, to keep from getting fired. But we do it. We show up every day.
We stay on the job all day. Our minds may wander, but our bodies remain at the wheel. We pick up the phone when it rings, we assist the customer when he seeks our help. We don't go home till the whistle blows.
We are committed over the long haul. Next year we may go to another job, another company, another country. But we'll still be working. Until we hit the lottery, we are part of the labor force.
The stakes for us are high and real. This is about survival, feeding our families, educating our children. It's about eating
We master the technique of our jobs.
We have a sense of humor about our jobs.
We receive praise or blame in the real world.
writers day
Again I'm there but not really.
The clock is running in my head
I'm done with my chores now. It's time. I say my prayer and head out on the hunt
I know how to shut up and keep humping. This is a great asset because it's human, the proper role for a mortal. It does not offend the gods, but elicits their intercession.
My bitching self is receding now. The instincts are taking there he is: the nice fat hare I knew would show up if I just kept plugging
I go to sleep content, but my final thought is of Resistance. I will wake up with it tomorrow. Already I am steeling myself
am steeling myself
HOW TO BE MISERABLE
The artist committing himself to his calling has volunteered for hell, whether he knows it or not. He will be dining for the duration on a diet of isolation, rejection, self-doubt, despair, ridicule, contempt, and humiliation.
The artist must be like that Marine. He has to know how to be miserable. He has to love being miserable. He has to take pride in being more miserable than any soldier or swabbie or jet jockey. Because this is war, baby. And war is hell.