This installment is a bit stream-of-consciousness. I’m all over the place, literally and figuratively. I started writing this in the United States and completed it in Europe, but the trip is a short one and I find being jet-lagged doesn’t help with my sentence structure. I’m at the end of the travel whip as it cracks.
I’m traveling this week. With my misanthropic tendencies, I get to observe my fellow humans confirm why I don’t have (much) faith in the human condition. Packed into metal tubes hurtling through the sky, I observe people at their worst, being sneered at by those in First Class as I shuffle behind the clueless to jam myself in my opulent seat in cattle class. Ugh.
Being judgmental doesn’t help, either, as I look upon the airport denizens in their awful choices of clothing (crocs and bedroom slippers, egads!), the way they carry themselves, and the venal, self-absorbed nature of the Tic-Tok generation. I’m at least wearing a collared shirt—untucked, no less—and a coordinated outfit. True, I’m wider around the middle than in my youth, but the people I’m judging don’t pay me any mind. What’s another middle-aged dude banging away on a computer in an airport lounge anyway?
Things have been busy lately, though I don’t have much to show for it, or at least it feels that way. I gave a presentation last week and while it was well-received and I sold a few books, I’m feeling unfulfilled. Sure, people don’t know how much time and effort I put into that talk, the hours of rehearsal and working with a speaking coach, the presentation’s excellent, catchy design, but maybe that’s the point. No one realizes when things are going right, and the preparation should be transparent. As with writing a screenplay, when the lights go down, all the audience wants is a story that entertains them. And that’s what I did last week. It went well.
I’ve written a lot this year. I fear I’m approaching burn-out, but that may also be temporary. I am a writer, after all, and my weekly missives are expected, perhaps even anticipated, by my subscribers. I hope so, anyway. I may have less than 200 subs, but they (YOU) are important to me, so thanks for sticking by as I stumble through being a creative.
My novel, Once We Pledged Forever, is nearly complete and will be released in August. I’m in the throes of final editing and galley proofs. From there I’ll release a few passages from it on this blog, all while my advanced reviewers gnaw on the finished product. There’s an attendant nervousness with its completion. Once it’s out in the world, its reception is out of my control, but who wants something to land flat or not be well-received? No one with any sort of ego, certainly. No, not me, right?
By the time many of you receive this in your inbox you’ll be on your second cup of coffee, if not starting your weekend at a child’s soccer game or doing chores you didn’t get to this week. I don’t want your reading my humble column to be burdensome, so at least this week we can reflect on the tumultuous nature of the world and wonder if art can indeed save it.
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We artists need to work overtime to counter the negativity of hawkish politicians, though they have always been there, advised by people who think they know what the other side is going to do. That’s rubbish. If there’s any predictability, it’s that the people on the other side are unpredictable. How’s that for a foreign affairs assessment?
As I titled this installment “Burn Out,” that refers to my own, primarily, and I ponder what burn out looks like to others. Is it a physical manifestation? Is it mental? Is it both, such that it feels like an illness? Or is it ennui, a sluggishness that envelops a person’s mind and drags them down with attendant despair, with a nihilistic shrug, even?
I may have just defined it for myself, which is a breakthrough, and now I watch the cursor and consider the last paragraph.
Yes, it is indeed my own summary of burn out. No, I can’t stop doing what I do. Writing is for my mind and soul as a good physical workout is for my body and spirit. It is something I must do, even when I don’t feel like doing it. My writing need not be enlightened or incisive, either. Thoughtful and intelligent will suffice (my own assessment).
I’ll take burn out over writer’s block, which I don’t believe in. I always have something to write about, even in the abstract. Burn out means I need to slow down a little, maybe let the engine rest ahead of another set of projects, and recognize that things are indeed going right.
As Neil Young sang, “Its better to burn out, than to fade away.” I don’t want a flame-out on my existence, however, so I focus on the slow, steady progress. This means I’m not going anywhere except back to work.
Enjoy!
