Enjoying the Process
I want to be able to enjoy writing, especially when I'm in a bad mood
disclaimer: this essay was written stream of consciousness — it doesn’t reflect “the whole truth”, but merely my view now. It’s negative because I felt bad writing it — I could have just as truthfully described how happy I am with my responsible decisions and a supportive, understanding team, and it would be easy to write that now, in the comfort of my home, with fresh food in my belly. Alas, when writing this essay I wasn’t happy, and I want to be able to publish that. Enjoy.
I’m writing for 100 days and I want to enjoy it.
What does it mean to enjoy writing?
No, that’s not even what I want to say.
Pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain. Too much is going on.
I wish I were listening to music.
But I’m at work, and I shouldn’t be listening to music at work.
I don’t want to be at work anymore.
My last day is Friday.
It’s weird to be somewhere I don’t want to be — but I told someone that I’d be here, and now I’m trapped. My mind is trapped in a body shared by some past andrew who signed us up for a job that we don’t want anymore — it was a mistake to sign up.
It’s painful to be trapped like that. I make a lot of commitments in my life, but it’s rare for them to pain me. As my options increase, as I become more powerful, more creative, more interested in my own experience and my own projects, the pain and pleasure of commitment increases, I guess.
Currently it’s pain. pain pain pain pain pain. It’s painful to be waiting until what seems like an arbitrary future date because I “wanted to make sure the transition went well” — a social custom that has value in many cases. In this case, it didn’t, because I stayed too long. After I handed off all my documents, and explained all the systems, I still had another two weeks. That was a strange and painful decision to make. Can I leave early? I didn’t ask.
I could have given 2 days’ notice. I could have given 2 weeks’ notice. I gave 6 weeks’ notice because I felt like that was a responsible thing to do.
Responsible to whom?
From this perspective, it wasn’t responsible to me. It wasn’t responsible to my wife. It wasn’t responsible to my community or my friends or my future projects or all the customers and users I might help.
And as I sit here writing this essay I realize — I don’t have valuable work to do here. This is a waste. So I sit in pain, longing for home, missing my wife, and feeling the weight of my desire to be elsewhere.
I guess I’ve spent the last week reflecting on how many hours of our lives we waste waiting. Not because we want to wait, or because we think it’s best to wait, but simply because we felt like it was socially appropriate to wait.
And yet I’m afraid to share.
I’m afraid to tell my manager any of this.
Well, at least I recognized this 6 weeks ago — my last day is Friday.
I’ll see you on the other side.
I enjoyed writing this.