I managed to get very minimal writing done this weekend. When I say minimal, I mean none. This wasn’t part of the plan, of course. Sunday was intended to be my day of nonstop typing. After a couple of slow days, I figured I’d make it up to myself and finish another chapter of my novel. I had the affair all mapped out in my head. I was going to wake up early, get the gym out the way before the sun had chance to rise, then skip on home where I’d brew a pot of coffee before hiding away in my study.

Matters didn’t formulate out as intended, of course. I overslept, to begin with. A late finish at a friend’s the night before made a lie-in all the more tempting. My gym session therefore didn’t happen until much later on in the day. I wasn’t at the darn place until gone midday. By the time I’d finished, I was tired, sluggish, cold, and packed full of too many excuses to dedicate my evening to storytelling.

Instead, I jumped on my PlayStation and gamed for a good four or five hours. Not that there’s anything wrong with choosing this option, of course. My week was hectic, my weekend was relatively busy, and my body was telling me to rest up before the hustle and bustle of my workweek started again. None of which is to say I felt any better about my decision, mind you. I could feel the rot of guilt hollow me within. By bedtime, the guilt had formed into anxiety. How am I to accomplish my dreams if a gosh darn PlayStation is enough to distract me.

I’m not sure that it’s fair for to beat myself up about engaging in downtime. It’s what I needed at that moment. If a friend voice these anxieties to me, I’d tell them that they had every right to park their brain for a few hours during their time off.

Amidst all the short stories, novel work, podcast editing and gym workouts I engage in on a near-constant basis, I’d say it’s far from unreasonable to apply the breaks from time-to-time, right? I mean must it always be about productivity? Must I continuously be writing and editing and working toward something that I hope will one day pay off?

Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t an to replace the writing with gaming. The very thought turns my stomach to jelly. I’m merely suggesting I need to get better at being okay with hitting pause every now and then.

Balance is the key. While writing outside of my office hours is vital, it cannot be the only thing I do when I’m not podcasting or exercising. I suppose it’s easy to forget at times that working on novels, editing my show, developing essays, and penning short stories are essentially additional side jobs on top of the main one I do for an actual living. Sure, they aren’t bringing in any income at this moment time, but I’m still investing hours of my time into working on these projects. This stuff takes it out of you.

Yet still I find myself drowning in guilt whenever I have days like Sunday. The idea of not writing because I want to relax  shouldn’t be negative. Surely engaging in non-productive downtime is the sign of a healthy individual refraining from burning the candle at all ends. Then again, I suppose I’m far from alone when I feel regret for sidelining productivity. A glance at many writing forums suggests there’s a cultural desire to measure worth based on how much work we invest into our projects.  I suppose it stems from the common belief (or yearning) that we live in a meritocracy. The idea that the longer we work, the more we’ll be rewarded is fried into our psyches like a branded iron on a cattle’s flesh. If we just put the hours in, someday we can have everything we want. The more we invest into our careers, the closer we’ll get to achieving our dreams. To work is to be successful. To be successful is to assign meaning to our existence.

If we reallocate time to ourselves, in creeps the shame and feelings of worthlessness. Forget all the hours already spent investing in my stories and podcasting and fitness. A day or two off allows the panic to flood me. The feeling that my dreams are slipping out of reach because I’m lazy or undisciplined or unfocused. Never mind that I’ve dedicated a significant portion of my day to drafting out a journal entry of this nature; outlining my thoughts and feelings on the very subject of writing. Never mind the projects and tasks completed; the brain simply wishes to dwell on the moments when I wanted to kick up my feet and not have to use my brain too greatly.

Perhaps it doesn’t help matters that I’ve had a few weeks away from Podcasting. We’ve had to delay our recent recordings due to some personal matters. Working on the show has filled up my spare time these last few months like air flooding a vacuum. Some evenings, I’ve returned from the gym, fired up my computer, and remained glued to my computer until 1am in the morning. While it’s been known to tire me out to no end, the productivity brought a sense of purpose to me like no other. Trimming dialogue, building jingles and sewing narratives from 2 hours of wooly rambles gave me a sense of accomplishment. For someone who thrives off productivity, editing gave it me purpose in spades.

None of which is to say that the time away from editing has been all bad. It’s actually done me a world of good, in many respects. It’s allowed me to focus my energies on other projects for a few weeks. My novel, my website. Heck, it’s even given me time to get back into reading again. Oh how I’ve missed loosing myself in a Stephen King novel. I’ve even been brushing up on my politics again. It’s been nice to vary my hobbies a touch. It’s even been enough for my co-hosts and I to decided to switch to fortnightly episode releases instead of weekly; giving us space to engage in the other aspects of our life. As joyous as the podcast undoubtedly is, there lingered a risk that it might devour us whole, sucking us into a secondary job that demanded all of our free time.

Be as that may, shifting from non-stop podcast work to a few weeks of nothing left me feeling empty. Despite having the energy to dive into other stuff, I felt as though I’d misplaced my purpose. For one thing, working on my novel doesn’t garner the same instantaneous results as audio editing. There was no finished product to put out into the ether at the end of each week. It was hours upon hours of writing, without having so much as a blog post to publish into the sphere. Finishing a novel isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon; one that occasionally leaves me feeling as though my efforts were in vain. Intellectually, I know this is all hogwash, yet emotionally, it feels as though I’ve achieved nothing.

This, tied in with a weekend of relaxing has just left me feeling fruitless. It feels as though I have a strict parent, living rent free the back of my mind. This imaginary guardian tuts in disappointment, frustrated whenever I have nothing I’m proud of to publish. If I’m not grafting, I may as well be dead in its eyes. That might be a bit of an exaggeration, yet there’s still a slither of truth to such hyperbole.

I really do need to go easier on myself. I’m doing far better with my writing than I’m giving myself credit for. I work a busy 9-5, I’m writing in some form or another at least every other weekday. Just because results and opportunities aren’t sprouting forth from my content doesn’t make me a useless failure. I’m finding my voice, figuring out my routine, and doing the best I can amidst a lifestyle that’s far from placid.

Could I be doing better? In some areas, sure. I need to try and be more focused with the projects I’m working on. I could also be a little more disciplined in how I plan my writing session. None of which is to say I’m failing at this though. I’m just beating myself up for not burning myself out enough.

When I word it like that, it really does put things into perspective.