Sam Was Up At 4AM Today
Sam Was Up At 4AM Today
My work life balance has always been a problem for me and breaking old habits means taking a long hard look at myself, my output, and my ego. You can understand why I'm struggling here.
Sam was up at 4 AM today. No matter how much breastfeeding he was offered and no matter how dark and cozy the bedroom was, he determined it was time to party, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer.
We came downstairs to a quiet and dark house. Within a minute or so, Sam ensured that the house was no longer quiet or dark when he grabbed his basketball, his Little Blue Truck books, and his baby doll to get the party started. He stopped short of blaring a 2010’s Dubstep Essentials playlist on our Apple Homepods, but the kid knows how to throw down. I brewed coffee, made a snack for the boy, and we partied.
My plan for the day would be thrown out the window.
Today I was going to restart my writing routine. Up at 4 AM (it used to be 5 AM, but I set my alarm for 4 AM today because I felt like that extra hour will help ensure I get enough time with the words), writing until around 7:30 AM when Sam and Mad get up. Today I was going to tackle the backlog of posts - I have a half dozen or so posts close to being published, but they still need work; I intended on dropping a few of them this week. I also intended to get my new podcast in shape enough to publish, it’s close, but I know it can be much better than it currently is.
It has been quiet here on my Substack, and that bothers me. I had momentum, and then I lost it. I want to get it back. Today was going to be the day meant to kickstart that process.
I try not to place too much value on output in terms of my work, but when not writing, publishing, recording, or standing on stage yelling at strangers, I start to lose touch with an important piece of myself. At least, it feels like an important piece of myself.
I try to remind myself - process over product. Real ninjas move in silence. The real work of the work is the work that no one sees you do. Blah, blah, blah. Solid advice for those hoping for longevity in their career and good advice for those just starting.
But.
Writing in all forms reminds me that I’m not just someone that loves eating fat sandwiches or screaming wild decolonial political imaginings at strangers while standing on a stage or while pounding on keys online.
When not writing, my brain feels full. The backlog of words and ideas becomes a mildly toxic elixir of waning ideas and half-thought-out philosophical debates between my Ojibway/Irish/French brain and, well, it’s just a fistfight between my Ojibway/Irish/French brain and itself. But it’s ugly all the same.
When I was doing comedy full-time, momentum was/is important. It’s fundamental to the art form, really. Doing back to back to back to back sets in comedy means a world of difference. Getting up every night in a dark room full of strangers to ensure your words are tight, the ideas are funny, and that you find the execution in every breath of the setup and punchlines is how you build an act, it’s how you become a pro, and it’s how you stay a pro.
Maybe that’s it.
Maybe I’m just fighting to stay a pro?
This career has cost me a lot. Getting to where I am in my career has been long and full of struggles, failure, and various sufferings. And now that I find myself where I can say I have a career, I’m deathly afraid of losing it. So building momentum and finding momentum and keeping momentum is a big part of the job as an independent creative. And that’s hard.
Is the work I’m doing serving spirit, or is the work serving ego?
I have an even deeper fear, though.
What if my struggle isn’t with the work?
What if my struggle is with my ego?
What if producing the work is predominantly ego-driven?
And it’s weird saying that because I don’t think I have an ego problem. That’s not to say I haven’t struggled with ego; I have. Much of my therapy time is spent arguing with myself about my ego and its pitfalls.
I don’t feel that my ego is attached to my work because being in the public light is easily the worst part of this job and always has been. Shaking hands, making small talk, and awkwardly receiving compliments from nice people is difficult for me.
An old theatre director of mine from college, Jack Gilbertson, taught me it was a rule to go out and greet the audience that has paid their hard-earned money to come and see you. I have always done that practice despite the discomfort I feel receiving praise, taking photos with strangers, and being told, “I’m sooo funny.”
I’ve never been comfortable with accolades and have rejected role model and hero titles. Even in presentations or community visits or various other public appearances, I’ve always contended that I am no one special and that I have a weird job. Further, I’ve always told young people not to look up to me because the only difference between them and I is that I have done things they haven’t done yet.
I have declined the Indspire award nomination process three times in my career when different groups and communities have expressed interest in nominating me. I could keep going on this point but I won’t. In short, I don’t want the pedestal, and I don’t want the titles. I never have and never will.
I feel uncomfortable with praise, attention, or prestige. Yet my job is to stand in front of crowds of strangers and talk into microphones which requires the attention of said strangers, and I only know if I’m being successful through the measure of their laughter (their praise, really). See, it’s complicated.
I fear that my attachment to completing work and digging in on big, hard chunks of material, story, and ideas is how and why I value myself. But how valuable is it really if it makes me unavailable to the people I love more than anything?
Completing this work makes me feel important and worthy, not because people believe that about me as a result of my work but because I believe that about myself as a result of my work.
I try to be original in thought and presentation; I like doing things the hard way, earning the story, and not cutting corners because the value of the sweat and tears can be felt by whoever comes across the work. When people find my work and take the time to consider it, read it, hear it, and watch it, I want them to feel like it was worth it. That’s important to me.
You have to work to get to the dark corners of anything creatively. You have to stew on it. You have to build it, then tear it down over and over again. This, of course, takes time and, for me, needs momentum. But momentum comes at a cost. The cost will never be worth the price you pay for it.
To have a career in this country meant I had to be away from my kids. It meant I’d drive across the country alone, sleep in dark parking lots, and eat cold Tim Horton’s breakfast sandwiches to make ends meet. It meant their dad would be gone for days telling jokes to disinterested drunks at a local legion for $650 a show. Sometimes the pay was better; sometimes the crowds were bigger, and sometimes I got to be on TV.
My daughters, now 19 and 17, paid the price for my “career.”
I will never not regret this fact. I will never not feel guilty about this. I will die someday with this heavy on my heart. They both know I will spend my life trying to make this up to them. And they’re okay; their mom was a really good mom to them.
Success comes at a cost that will never be worth the laughs, money, or chance to be on the CBC.
I want to find the balance in this next chapter of my life. I want to feel good about getting up from my desk without resenting it. I want to freely remind myself that the work will be there tomorrow and the next day, and the next day.
I have a wonderfully supportive and loving partner that drops everything to make space for my work whenever needed. I’m working on being okay with reciprocating this good heart and mind.
I mentioned in earlier posts on this Substack that pieces of me were broken and needed fixing. This is one of those pieces. It’s ugly to have been a workaholic. And it’s ugly to have been away from my daughters for work. And it’s ugly to admit all of this; it hurts, is sad, and is hard.
So when Sam needed to party at 4 AM this morning, I was fine with it. I embraced the party. I cleared the schedule. And I walked forward into healing.