Yet Another Cry for Help

Last night I spoke with a friend about how hard it is to do, well, anything. Once the necessities of the day are finished, we agreed it often seems impossible to muster the energy to do the things we actually enjoy. She told me that she does more drawing when it is just for her. When she is enjoying herself and nobody is waiting for her she gets more done.

This is not the case with me. If I don’t have the looming shadow of a deadline hanging over me, or the threat of a look of disappointment from someone, I’d never do much of anything. In other words, I can’t do the things that I enjoy unless all of the fun has been sucked away and replaced with chilly void of responsibility.

Have I mentioned I was raised Catholic?

Like most of my neuroses, I can blame my writing method on Jesus. Writing has become just as interesting as my 9-5 data entry job without the perks of paychecks or hot temps. However, while the presence of managers and bosses keeps me rushing into work early every day, writing at home is simply too fun and consequence-free to ever happen. It seems the Catholic sense of duty falls somewhere between a Protestant Work Ethic and Jewish Guilt. I get plenty of things done, but it’s never good enough. At this point, however, I’d much rather get some writing done than be happy about it.

I need a boss; I suppose is what I’m getting at. A boss for my personal life. Someone to strip away my child-like wonderment and grind me into sad submission with a nice pair of boots. It would be nice to get paid for the privilege of someone else taking the fun out of my life, but I’d settle for a hot temp or two.