Note: I received exactly zero suggestions for writing-related topics in response to last week’s query, and a few emails encouraging me to keep writing about my adventures in the arts, so I’m going to continue blathering for the present.
BEING ALIVE
As recorded here, a friend from high school has been trying to teach me ballroom dancing. We haven’t progressed all that far, and not just because I am an inept student. We both have crazy schedules, and there have been illnesses and family crises on both sides over the past year. But we have persevered, and we recently decided it was time to take our act public. So last Friday night, we went to a dance club in Chelsea to strut our stuff.
We didn’t do a lot of strutting. I’ve only mastered (if you can call it that) the rudiments of 3 styles—waltz, fox trot, and swing—and this turned out to be kind of a Latin night. When we did dance, I stepped on his foot several times and managed to crash us into another couple.
And we had a wonderful time. I discovered that even not-great dancing is much more fun than not dancing—but sitting it out and watching really good dancers also has its rewards. I felt inspired to go on with our studies, and the other dancers were friendly and helpful.
When I was young, the message I got was that there was a clear division between work and recreation. Work was a series of unpleasant tasks that you forced yourself to perform to achieve a desired end—to support your family (my father); to have a beautiful home (my mother); to get into a decent college and, later, a competitive graduate program (guess who?). Recreation consisted of shucking off effort and doing something “frivolous” or “mindless,” with no ultimate objective: sharing a few beers with some friends in front of the ballgame on TV (Dad); going to a fancy-dress party (Mom); or curling up with a good book and a plate of chocolate-chip cookies (?).
Imaginative writing, acting, and singing fell into an uncomfortable nether region. They weren’t real work from my parents’ perspective, because they were unlikely to be lucrative. Yet they weren’t exactly recreational, because they demanded time and effort. In the final analysis they were classified as “that nonsense” and dismissed.
But I’m finding that, for me, “that nonsense” is exactly what gives meaning to my life: work that is so engaging that the goal itself becomes less important than the process of trying.
Over the past few years, I’ve been chided by a number of friends for not “putting myself out there” more. My agent dropped me, after being unable to sell my novel, and I haven’t really exerted myself to find another one. I’ve been writing steadily, but not submitting much. I still haven’t gotten headshots, despite the standing offer of a friend who’s a really good photographer to take them for free, which means I can’t go on formal auditions. I turned down a promotion because the new duties would have interfered with my singing lessons. I’m just not pushing myself as I was trained to do.
It’s not that I don’t plan to ever do these things. It’s just that my time and energy are limited right now, and given a choice between “that nonsense” and getting ahead in the world, or even “that nonsense” and more traditional forms of recreation, as long as I can pay the bills, the nonsense is going to win.
Last week, I started to try to explain to my friend Dana why I’ve been focusing more on my singing engagements in nursing homes and senior centers than on more lucrative work at which I’m decidedly more proficient, such as freelance writing and editing. “You don’t have to justify it,” she said. “I can see it in your face when you talk about it. The singing is alive for you. The other is just work.”
Exactly. Ever since I almost died a few years ago, what I want most is to feel alive.
My son is a gifted and increasingly impressive musician, and his teachers and mentors are encouraging him to apply to conservatories next year. He doesn’t want any part of it. He’s unlikely to be able to make a living playing the sort of music he prefers, he tells me, and since he knows he doesn’t want to teach, a conservatory would be pointless. Instead, he wants to major in something practical but enjoyable that will allow him to pursue music with as little fuss and complication as possible. He’s thought about computer work, custom-building guitars, and sound engineering.
When I tell friends, and some of his teachers, about his choice, they often respond with tips for pushing him to better fulfill his academic and musical potential. But I disagree. He’s a tremendously intelligent, literate, gifted individual who has assessed what makes him feel most alive, and is choosing to pursue that, rather than prestige or conventional success. I only wish that I’d been half as smart and mature at sixteen—or at thirty.
Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D.,is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself,she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. She is the author of Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity(Seal, 2007). Her Career Coach column appears every Monday on Inside Higher Ed's Mama, Ph.D. blog, and she is a regular monthly panelist on Litopia After Dark. Send your questions to her at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.
I can understand your son's thoughts completely. I'm working at a practical job (which I also enjoy) but I also write and am published as a novelist. I feel I have the best of both worlds. I am not exerting myself terribly at either. I'm doing both because I enjoy it. I could probably really work hard at being a better ("more successful") novelist, but I want to enjoy it, not work at it. The day it's not fun any more is the day I walk away from either "job".
Posted by: JL Wilson | October 29, 2010 at 08:46 AM