Slogging Along
I remember before moving back here having a conversation with my sister Ann, who lived here earlier in the decade. She was telling me about how living in this city can eventually become draining. This was something that I already knew about, to a certain extent. I’d been here for six months, and the major drain I’d felt at that time had been financial. I hadn’t been able to find work; I’d had to leave. It had been stressful, definitely. Well, now I’m back, and I have a job, and my problem is pretty much the opposite; I’m working too much, six days, forty-two hours a week, every week, to be precise. It’s tough. I need the money, but I have to battle past fatigue to steal a stray moment here and there to get some writing done, and I’ve having a difficult time establishing any rhythm. For something I’m working on to have the same level of quality throughout, regardless of length, I need to go into my writing sessions fresh, my mind clear, ready to see what it is I’m trying to convey, the channel or conduit to whatever creative energy I’m able to tap into open. When I’m coming off an eight hour shift and I know I’ve got another one upcoming shortly, plus I’m worried about a myriad of other distractions, my work is going to be hurried, sloppy, and of inconsistent quality…and that’s if I’m even able to concentrate on the same project at all. I find that when I’m not getting to write every day, then what it leads me to is to keep starting new projects, rather than going back and concentrating on ongoing ones. That means I have plenty in the works, but I’m never able to progress with anything, let alone finish it. Ann moved to California eventually. Even though she’s finished with med school and is doing her residency right now, which means she’s working even more hours a week than I am, I sometimes kind of envy her, being on the West Coast, where the frenetic pace of New York that she’d talked about gives way to California Cool. I know about that attitude also, having spent time in L.A. It’s nice.
I’m not saying that I regret coming to New York. Far from it. That’s actually part of the appeal to me, the fact that you have to grind it out here, and nothing comes easy. The cost of living, the fact that a lot of people around here generate this kind of “don’t mess with me” intensity, and then the equally challenging weather that we get for most of the year…we get real seasons here, and experts seem to be in agreement that we’re in for an especially rough winter…it all combines to drain and to challenge, in every conceivable way, mentally, physically, psychologically. It makes it difficult to stay healthy, it makes the upkeep of a relationship difficult, and it makes you crave an off day like the craving for water when you’re wandering in the desert.
At some point, my schedule will change, I’m sure of it, and then maybe I’ll have more time to work on the writing, to relax, and to just generally enjoy all that this fine city has to offer. But for now, it seems like I’ll just have to suck it up and go through the routine, stealing work time and leisure time whenever and however it presents itself. I feel so strongly that being here is what I was always meant to do, and everyone I talk to says being here the first full year is the hardest. The only thing that’s a little disquieting to me is that there are some people I’ve talked to that have lived here their entire lives, and they still are having financial hardship. That doesn’t bode well. And in this economy, no matter how much I complain, maybe I should just be glad to be working, doing anything, no matter what it is or how many hours a week. I feel like I’m reporting from the front lines here. And now I must go…I have to be at work in a couple of hours, and I still have a lot to do before then.