FXXK WRITING: THE WORKAHOLIC’S CREED

Given the current employment environment, and the freelance lives of many writers, I submit to you, with trepidation, the following. Next month, I dive into the subject even deeper by looking at failure and work.

Happy New Year from FXXK WRITING!

THE WORKAHOLIC’S CREDO

• I’m a workaholic. I believe that by working harder (but not smarter) I will gain everything that matters in life, as promised me by outdated production models.
• I’m a workaholic. I worship a god known as suffering that does not exist and yet I hope to earn her favor with toil.
• I’m a workaholic. I retreat from others into work modes akin to the dehumanizing arenas of the industrial revolution whenever I feel vulnerable (which is all times not working).
• I’m a workaholic. I will outwork failure; I will outwork heartbreak; I will outwork loneliness; and, I will outwork death. All of which is playing checkers while life is actually playing Jenga.
• I’m a workaholic. I can turn all leisure into work, especially if I’m a writer, because you write about everything and never stop working.
• I’m a workaholic. I can turn the tools of self-improvement into work and “get” the message while missing the point.
• I’m a workaholic. Most advice I receive is translated into “work more hours, make more products, lose more sleep, and then you will be loved.”
• I’m a workaholic. Exhaustion, desperation, and burnout are more common to me than a cold or hangover.
• I’m a workaholic. If you suggest there’s something wrong with how I work, you will get a very vehement, well structured argument, an acerbic defense of a broken system of merit, and, possibly, bit.
• I’m a workaholic. Black bags under my eyes are a badge of honor, and my mascot is an insomniac raccoon.
• I’m a workaholic. Rest is for the rich or the ignorant, both of whom I hate, and one of which I wish to be.
• I’m a workaholic. My commitment to work at all costs has saved my life in hard times, but it also distorts me into thinking there’s a meritocracy looking out for me and, maybe, the next thing I do will make me “better” than I am now.
• I’m a workaholic. If I ever stop working, I will turn to ash.
• I’m a workaholic. I have turned the necessary loneliness of being a writer into a romantic archetype that does nothing to help my actual romantic life because I am always working.
• I’m a workaholic. While I claim to be goal driven, I’m really fear driven: fear of failure, of being poor and homeless, of being irrelevant, of being ignored, of not keeping up with my peers, of not proving my naysayers, doubters and haters were full of shit.
• I’m a workaholic. Coffee is a symptom of a much deeper addiction: dreams of security and the perpetual need for external validation via said-illusory meritocracy.
• I’m a workaholic. I chose difficult careers and vocations that reflect my interests and skills but that also require deep solitude and incredible drive, which conveniently allows me to hide from “feelings”, which scare the hell out of me.
• I’m a workaholic. I only deserve empathy, support, and love if I’m destroying myself with work; otherwise, I’m a worthless and lazy sack of carbon worthy of only disdain.
• I’m a workaholic. Meditation gives me nightmares.
• I’m a workaholic. Zen is a synonym for lazy.
• I’m a workaholic. That hour you do yoga/exercise/rest is an hour where I pretend to work better than you while being sleep deprived, but am actually farting around on Facebook and Reddit.
• I’m a workaholic. I believe the law of depreciating returns and quality of life studies are valuable and helpful and necessary for everyone in the world, except me, because, well, I’ve got shit to do.
• I’m a workaholic. I have made a virtue of endurance over “self-care,” which is a term I believe was invented by New Age Communists set on destroying America.
• I’m a workaholic. If kith and kin aren’t worried about you, you’re slacking.
• I’m a workaholic. I am the oligarchy’s squeeze toy.
• I’m a workaholic. There are no interventions for me, since my work ethic is considered a paragon of American values for an American Dream that died in the 20th century . . . and I’m CANADIAN!
• I’m a workaholic. I’ve made the terror of poverty and homelessness an engine that will never give me peace.
• I’m a workaholic. I dream that I will die at my desk, alone, surrounded by wind and darkness, only to be drawn from my human carapace by Lady Death, from whom I will ask “Now, may I rest?” She will nod and take my hand as my monitor fizzles out. Sadly, I think this dream is awesome.
• I’m a . . . fuck it. I’m a person who needs a nap, exercise, friends, laughter, great conversation, even better sex, and then a rootbeer float.