My first job out of college was at a publishing house. I was 21 years old and making $19,000 a year. This company offered me $1,000 more than the others, so I figured it was a good deal. I did the math and saw that I could just eek by on that much, even in New York City. But then my father reminded me to factor in taxes, and I realized that I was screwed.
I ended up taking editorial work on the weekends to make ends meet, which didn't leave me much time for personal pursuits. Technically my job was to provide support for the editor in chief of the imprint, though I was also expected to read manuscripts and write reports recommending that the title be sent back to the agent with a rejection letter, or that they get a second read.
I was too busy during the day to read manuscripts, so I read at night, while I ate, while my boyfriend watched TV next to me, in the laundry room, in cafes. I got together for social outings with other editors, and we sat together to read. This was our "down time." Email was available, but you couldn't fit entire manuscripts on disks as efficiently as you can now, so we had to carry these double-spaced, single-sided, 450-page manuscripts to and from work. I was always weighed down with paper, much like today I'm always weighed down with my laptop.
One of the most common comments I heard under the breath of my peers was, "They don't pay me enough to (insert boring, time-intensive task here)." I felt that way about copying manuscripts, but never about reading during every waking leisure hour of my life. It never occurred to me that my biweekly check for $550 was hardly compensation for the work that I did from 9 to 5.
But this was the ethic of publishing, the "dues paying" that was required to get to a point of financial self-sustainability. Note I didn't say wealth; we goaled no further than to get to a point where we didn't have to go to bars with free hush puppies for sustenance, or live in apartments with fewer bedrooms than inhabitants (one of my friends managed the rent of her well-appointed one bedroom on the Upper East Side by having three roommates). I just wanted to have dinner out once in a while and not fret about spending $20.
Though I was cash poor, I didn't feel the financial sting as much as I felt the pressure of expectations--of having to show up for work every day; of having to be accountable to a boss. I coped with this pressure with an occasional mental health day, roughly one per quarter, and it was always on a Wednesday, the "Hump Day" as I liked to call it. I figured, I managed to make it half-way through the week, and now I deserve a day before attacking the latter half. But even on these days I read manuscripts; I was never fully free from my job.
My boss was totally onto me: "It's strange that you always tend to get sick on Wednesdays," she once said. No one questioned her when she took "Reading Days" to do nothing but read incoming manuscripts. It made sense to me--she should take days to immerse herself in the titles she bought, but didn't have the opportunity to when in the office. I longed for seniority to make more money, yes, but more importantly, to get to take Reading Days.
Years later I still yearn for Reading Days.
After all this time, and now as my own boss, I have yet to take one. I took some time in early 2005, to write and explore, but once BlogHer came along, that time evaporated. I'm not sure what I would do with a Reading Day at this point; what I would read or immerse myself in. I only feel the need for one.
I asked H-Band why, when I now have a much larger degree of autonomy, do I feel even beholden to a schedule and to others more than ever?
"You're more invested," he said. "You care because this is your venture. And you are more responsible for it than at any other job you've had."
It's a classic entrepreneurial paradox: We get more freedom over our lives by working for ourselves, but so many of us trade in that freedom with a more personal, more pervasive pressure. In the end, it's much harder to free us from ourselves.
I'm happy that I am working my passion. But am I living it? This question is pervading my thoughts lately. While I am doing professionally what moves me, I haven't constructed a life that allows me to do much else. I don't take care of my body like I used to. I don't let my curiosity wander to blogs of interest. I don't take Reading Days.
And I haven't seen any way around this. I don't believe that we can live frictionless lives. We will always have obligations to others, things to do that aren't desirable. But where do we set the line and ensure that what we are doing is purely choice? Should we live purely by choice?
Some would say that feeling obligated is in itself a choice. It's how you frame your thoughts around these tasks that make them obligations. I'm annoyed by this perspective; women, in particular, work themselves into lives they don't want by convincing themselves that their feelings of obligation are choices.
I began to delve into a book of a woman that I worked with several years ago, Jennifer Louden, who first gained recognition with her fabulous Comfort Queen books. Her new book, The Life Organizer: A Woman's Guide to a Mindful Year provided insights beyond what I've found in most "organizing" books.
Ironically, I wasn't going to read this book until I felt I had the space to absorb it, during some imagined time of leisure. These expectations are endemic to the eternally obligated. We seek a perfect situation for treating ourselves, and work ourselves to the bone to achieve it, not understanding that we won't achieve it without allowing ourselve to have it.
I was also unsure about reading a book about organizing. Organizing is hardly my issue; I need to learn to be OK with the unconstructed pieces of my life--to deconstruct areas that are becoming more cluttered than Tokyo. Where I've often disengaged in organizing advice is when I'm told to drop everything and meditate.
Louden's advice is holistic in nature, but it takes into account the other voices that scream for attention and gets at the root of them.
I've only just started the book, but one of my favorite parts is at the beginning, a section on "in the moment life organizing" that offers questions to ponder when you are feeling "off, out of it, overwhelmed, clutching, clenching, judgmental, victimized, fearful, exhausted, shut down, small, like you're living in a box, focused on what other people need or want from you, or in any way cut off from the present moment" (a typical day for me):
Where am I in respect to this moment? Where am I in respct to me? What is this moment calling from me?
A question that I increasingly ask myself before reacting to news, jumping on calls, or fixing a problem that threatens to pull me away from what I set out to do that day.
What do I need to know right now?
What's more difficult than asking this question is acting on the answer. Sometimes the answer is not to respond right away. Sometimes it's to breathe. Sometimes it's to finish the article you were reading before receiving an IM demanding an instant response.
What do I want?
According to Louden, "This is one of the most liberating and powerful questions--and one of the scariest. Remind yourself that you don't have to act on what you want, that wanting doesn't mean getting, and that the ultimate creativity is being in touch with your undiluted desires."
What does my body need right now?
Says Louden, "Insead of saying 'I'm thirsty, but first I'll answer this email/wipe this bottom/empty the dishwasher," honor the gift of the flesh you've been given and pour yourself a tall glass of water right now."
I don't know why hydrating myself is always so hard, but it is. And yet, by getting into the practice of doing these small things, your body learns to keep an even keel. And every day feels like less of a struggle between what you want to do and what you have to do.
And, also important, Louden doesn't encourage an ideal of spiritual perfection that makes us feel unevolved if we experience a modicum of stress.
Some of this sounds so simple, but for those of us who have continually lived with "manuscripts in our bags," believe me, it isn't.
Thank you for doing such a right on review of my book! It means so much to me when someone actually reads the book and uses it and then talks about it, versus just using the copy on the back... not that I haven't done that before. (blushing here). This is what I love about your blog - the honesty and care you take. I do hope the ideas in the book have legs for you, lasting value. I love this book so much.
Thanks again Jory, Jen
Posted by: JenniferLouden | April 02, 2007 at 10:43 AM
AMEN to all that. Sounds like a very sensible book indeed.
Sometimes the small things just allow you to catch the breath and then let it flow down through the body - no need for the handflapping gesture, it's all in the mind.
I'm getting a great deal more now from sitting back and letting others make the running too - often they say most of the things I would have dried out saying anyway, and all I need to do is expand or develop a few points here and there, or better still, ask questions. (You get to drink your water, too.)
Great stuff, thanks Jory and Jennifer.
Posted by: genevieve | April 05, 2007 at 12:48 AM
I understand exactly what you're saying. Since the birth of the little angel, my reading days have become reading hours, or even reading minutes, but ironically, now that I've only got minutes, I remember so much better what I've read. This post, for instance, will stick with me, because I haven't had time to read your blog in weeks, and this post really speaks to me.
This is modern life, unfortunately, but it is the only life we have.
Gandhi said, "there is more to life than speed." I try to live that.
Posted by: Dorothy | April 27, 2007 at 08:28 PM