I’m a Rambling Rock Star with a Complex.
There’s a constant nagging that goes on in my head. It has a little to do with me being a control freak and a whole lot to do with procrastination due to depression. I have so many things to do these days that I don’t want to start any of them, so I wait until the last possible second to start anything. This attitude results in even the most creative and passionate of tasks becoming nothing more than work. The control freak part comes in because I can’t say no to work and I need to do it all myself, resulting in a great cartooning and writing career turning into nothing more than a lousy job.
Now, I know there are those who say you do what you love for just the joy of doing it and nothing more. I agree that on paper, that this philosophy is true. However, I don’t care what you love to do, once you try and make that love your sole income, its really easy for it to turn into work. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still in love with what I do, but my marriage of creative ideas for income is officially on the rocks. It’s okay though, we’re in therapy. Up until about 20 minutes before this column came to be, I blamed all my troubles on not being paid what I’m worth. True, I’m not, but as I wrote, I realized what a pathetic cop out that is. Hardly anyone gets paid what they’re worth and the ones that do are usually over paid. From now on, my goal is to be content with whatever we have. It may take actions that I never considered to get there, like selling my sisters kids for beer, but that’s my goal.
My attitude hasn’t always been one of self-pity. There was a time, before I was beaten down by life, that I had iron clad self-esteem and perseverance. Nothing was going to stop me from success. Failure was not an option. No goal insurmountable… and so on… But things change, banks keep giving you money you can’t possibly pay back, freelance work dries up at the worst possible time and your dogs die. There’s only so much a man can take– the dog one being that last straw on my broken back. One of my closest friends said to me recently, “If I ever find the fucker that decided that dogs only live a short time, I’m gonna make him wish he died along time ago.”
Truer words were never spoken. It gets better, but losing a pet is the biggest creative killer in males over 30. I looked it up.
To further my rant of how hard my life is, let explain how the working week is different for the creatively career-minded. For one, there needs to be a tremendous amount of self-motivation. You are your own boss and you need to motivate yourself, which at times is extremely difficult when you’re depressed from not having money for whiskey or beer and haven’t had a good idea in days. Let me just say, as well, when you are trying to make a buck off of your funny ideas, there’s no room for the “mental break” a lot my creative friends like to take to mull things over. If you want to compete and make the cash, you better be able to come up with original work. And fast. Because you are working from your home, there are the domestic responsibilities too, like the laundry. Jesus Christ. I have a mountain of laundry in my office that I call Mt. Musty Cotton and near positive a family of woodland creatures has set up camp underneath. I woke up last Tuesday to a pair of Levis in the hall with a hen-scratched note: “Seriously, even we wash fur occasionally.” When there are these extraneous factors, it’s a hell of a lot easier to just phone it in, which is what I’ve been doing the last two months. And it’s been making feel like shit. This is all supposed to be fun and inspiring. I’m supposed BE inspiring to others. I’m supposed to rule the mother fuckin’ world. I’m supposed to be a Goddamned Rock Star.
And no, we don’t have kids. Can you imagine me as a father? “ No, Daddy has no money for you and what have I told you about bothering me when I’m in my closet and whiskey time?” or “No, you can’t have dog. They die and rip your heart out.
So what’s the fix here? How do I get out of this circle of self-pity and flat out anger and jealousy for my successful friends? I could quit. That would be the easy thing to do. In hindsight, it’s easy to talk about all this stuff and pontificate in flights of ridicularity, but the truth is I need to keep writing, keep drawing and keep trying to be a rock star (I’ve learned 3 Social Distortion songs on the new Fender this week).
Seriously, what else am I gonna do? Get a real job? I don’t think so.
Now, I know there are those who say you do what you love for just the joy of doing it and nothing more. I agree that on paper, that this philosophy is true. However, I don’t care what you love to do, once you try and make that love your sole income, its really easy for it to turn into work. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still in love with what I do, but my marriage of creative ideas for income is officially on the rocks. It’s okay though, we’re in therapy. Up until about 20 minutes before this column came to be, I blamed all my troubles on not being paid what I’m worth. True, I’m not, but as I wrote, I realized what a pathetic cop out that is. Hardly anyone gets paid what they’re worth and the ones that do are usually over paid. From now on, my goal is to be content with whatever we have. It may take actions that I never considered to get there, like selling my sisters kids for beer, but that’s my goal.
My attitude hasn’t always been one of self-pity. There was a time, before I was beaten down by life, that I had iron clad self-esteem and perseverance. Nothing was going to stop me from success. Failure was not an option. No goal insurmountable… and so on… But things change, banks keep giving you money you can’t possibly pay back, freelance work dries up at the worst possible time and your dogs die. There’s only so much a man can take– the dog one being that last straw on my broken back. One of my closest friends said to me recently, “If I ever find the fucker that decided that dogs only live a short time, I’m gonna make him wish he died along time ago.”
Truer words were never spoken. It gets better, but losing a pet is the biggest creative killer in males over 30. I looked it up.
To further my rant of how hard my life is, let explain how the working week is different for the creatively career-minded. For one, there needs to be a tremendous amount of self-motivation. You are your own boss and you need to motivate yourself, which at times is extremely difficult when you’re depressed from not having money for whiskey or beer and haven’t had a good idea in days. Let me just say, as well, when you are trying to make a buck off of your funny ideas, there’s no room for the “mental break” a lot my creative friends like to take to mull things over. If you want to compete and make the cash, you better be able to come up with original work. And fast. Because you are working from your home, there are the domestic responsibilities too, like the laundry. Jesus Christ. I have a mountain of laundry in my office that I call Mt. Musty Cotton and near positive a family of woodland creatures has set up camp underneath. I woke up last Tuesday to a pair of Levis in the hall with a hen-scratched note: “Seriously, even we wash fur occasionally.” When there are these extraneous factors, it’s a hell of a lot easier to just phone it in, which is what I’ve been doing the last two months. And it’s been making feel like shit. This is all supposed to be fun and inspiring. I’m supposed BE inspiring to others. I’m supposed to rule the mother fuckin’ world. I’m supposed to be a Goddamned Rock Star.
And no, we don’t have kids. Can you imagine me as a father? “ No, Daddy has no money for you and what have I told you about bothering me when I’m in my closet and whiskey time?” or “No, you can’t have dog. They die and rip your heart out.
So what’s the fix here? How do I get out of this circle of self-pity and flat out anger and jealousy for my successful friends? I could quit. That would be the easy thing to do. In hindsight, it’s easy to talk about all this stuff and pontificate in flights of ridicularity, but the truth is I need to keep writing, keep drawing and keep trying to be a rock star (I’ve learned 3 Social Distortion songs on the new Fender this week).
Seriously, what else am I gonna do? Get a real job? I don’t think so.