Taking Time Off

It all started with that damn table.

We have a table that we use for performances. It’s big. Solid wood. Pretty heavy, but I could shift it myself, which made me proud. “Stronger than I look.” “Wiry muscles.” “I can do it.”

Until suddenly, I couldn’t.

Then I started getting a feeling like standing on the edge of the high dive: pounding heart and shortened breath. Only I’d be reading a book on my couch, Guinness curled at my feet.

“I think you may have a bit of anxiety,” my doctor said.

Well, obviously.

But that damn table. That damn table kept getting heavier. During shows, my breath control shook like a faulty foundation. I couldn’t switch from sprinting around the stage to strolling on singing. I had a blood test done and got so tired that I crashed a friend’s house to steal a half-hour nap between work and choir.

“Sleep,” William Powell Frith (1872). I did not look this elegant.

Most importantly: I couldn’t write. Oh, I’d try. I’d sit down with an outline and a heap of images and an idea of where I wanted the story to go, but the words came out like mud: ugly and thick. I know what it’s like to soar on story, and I was barely crawling.

And so I felt very bad about myself.

I said some not-very-nice things to myself.

I called my mom a lot.

Then the doctor called with entirely unsurprising news. Anaemia. Again. Though my iron stores are not objectively low, apparently I kind of suck at making blood.

Or I’m besieged by vampires. “Vampire,” by Edvard Munch (1893).

But more than that—I think I burnt myself out. Too many late nights. Too little recovery time. Too much weight on my shoulders; too much stress that I’d simply swallowed down until my body said, “F*** you, f*** this, I quit.”

So I made an agreement with myself: a week off. Any previously booked appointments and commitments, I’d do, but nothing else. No writing, no submitting, no worrying about writing. Just reading, music, and early bedtimes. At that point, I was desperate enough to try anything.

We’re nearing the end of that week, and it’s been…hard. In creative and freelance careers, busy-ness is next to godliness. We must always be working. Always eager for more. If we cannot—if we cannot produce, if we buckle under the constant strain—we take it as a sign that our secret fears are true—we are not tough enough for this vocation. We may as well go home.

It’s easy to call shenanigans on that when someone else is going through it. It’s a lot harder when it’s you.

As I’ve said before: in order to have a long, fulfilling creative life, we need to not die in the process. Sometimes that means sharpening the saw. Taking a week off. Getting one’s health in order.

You cannot create if you are dead or dying.

Danse Macabre, n.d.

And yes, I’m still working on it. Honestly, the sense of failure is hard to shake. “I did nothing this week! I’m not a real writer! I’m falling behind!” But at the same time, taking time now can save time later on. Along with making the road more pleasant. I hear treks are easier when one has sufficient red blood cells.

So I’m taking care of my creative life by taking care of myself. And pretty soon—

I’ll be moving that damn table, all by myself.

-KT

What I’m Listening to this Week

I’ve been listening to this young man for a while: boy sopranos like this don’t come along very often. His voice is doing some really interesting things as it matures. The distinctive treble “ring” may be gone—but it’s getting the unearthly, uncanny quality of a good countertenor (especially in the lower register), and the mezzo notes are exquisite.

In any case, hats off to a very fine musician!

Posted on October 2, 2017, in Writing and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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