A ‘work self’

Countless people have recommended Marilyn Robinson’s novel Gilead to me. I was delighted to find it at a second-hand bookshop in 2022, but it was only recently that I was able to clear the backlog on my bedside table to make room for her. I had such high hopes for the gentle, eloquent novel about a dying minister that had won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2005.

The fact that I had to read the first 20 pages twice was not a good sign. I soldiered through until around page 60, which coincided with a trip to see my parents. It was trying to read it on the plane when I realised I couldn’t do it. Ezra Klein from NYT claims to “achieve completely different mental states on planes. And I think it’s because there is so little distraction.” Time on a plane might be regarded as the most precious of spaces for upper-middle-class people who complain of being undisciplined and distracted by the demands made of us and how available we make ourselves; a literal and figurative capsule where the only thing to look forward to is which in-flight snack we might get to choose.

Marilyn’s prose and her storytelling were superb. The book isn’t dauntingly big. It didn’t have a whole dictionary at the back for a new language like Dune or the Broken Earth Trilogy. “It is a slim, spare, yet exquisite and wonderfully realized story that will long stand as one of fiction’s finest reflections on the sacramental dimensions of life”, according to reviewer David Anderson. What an accolade. But I couldn’t get into it. So, I left the book with my parents, knowing at least one of them would have the time and headspace to give Gilead what she deserved.

Mum asked why I’d stopped reading it. I didn’t think, I just said, “I feel too hard, and that book will only land where it’s meant to when I am softer”. Before it had left my mouth, these words surprised me with how right they felt. That book deserved more than I could give it – more attention, more space to delight, more mental mastication. I was tired and stressed. Like when I swapped out Captain Corelli’s Mandolin for Harry Potter in March 2020, I felt, rather than knew, when it was time to put down the book. It wasn’t her, it was me.

Likewise, I haven’t written anything for a year, and I know why – I wasn’t thinking about what I wanted to write about because I didn’t want to write. I was too hard – brittle, closed off, fragile.

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I’m working out on my own again. Contracting, consulting, self-employed professional, solopreneur, freelancing… Whatever the word is, I’m not employed by a business anymore. I call the shots and have to find the gigs now – where I want to work, who I want to work with, what type of work I want to do. Provided, that is, that people think my skills will help them solve a problem that is costing them more than I would.

Because I’m in this new state of seeking work and getting out on the professional “prowl”, I know people will be looking me up. They want to know I’ve solved problems like theirs before, and that they can trust me. I’ve been toying with the idea in my head of changing up this website to focus on creating a space that communicates the answers to those questions that potential clients have. And honestly, even though I know I need to convince people to use my services, what I want clients to see is not just the ‘me’ who delivers the work, but the parts of me that led me to that space. Less of the ‘work’ me and more of the… well, just more of the whole me. Less hard, more soft.

When I started this website, I’d gone through an online programme called the altMBA, in which I was writing and posting ~1,000 words of articles or comments a day for a month. This practice helped me see that, when I had the right prompt and I carved out the space, the words would come. They weren’t all worth remembering, but sometimes, I felt quietly proud of what I had said, or the way I’d said it.

I wanted that feeling to continue. My journalling continued, but there’s something about crafting a piece that you know someone will actually read.

Even from the get-go, I couldn’t stomach the thought of being as guarded and clinical as the true inspiration for this blogging idea, Seth Godin. Seth blogs every day and has clocked over two decades of daily writing. Seth is guarded about his family and personal life (aside from his love of canoeing and dal, and I understand why. When millions of people get your blog because you’ve shown up consistently with interesting business or marketing ideas, they probably don’t want to know about how you still haven’t resolved an argument you had with your sister three years ago, or the outcome of your recent doctor’s appointment, or your paralysing fear of death… Besides, in certain circles, he’d be reasonably famous, and I understand why he’d want to protect the privacy of his family and friends.

For the first two years, my execution couldn’t keep up with my taste. I was writing about productivity hacks and mindset shifts because that was the altMBA world I was steeped in. Initially it was a way to stand out from other job candidates as much as growing my writing skills. I was trying to figure out what I thought about the world, while also portraying myself in a certain way to potential bosses or companies. I was trying out what it meant to be “professional’ and “show initiative”. But as I grew in confidence, you’ll notice I started to share more of myself.

I realised that I delighted when I found stories about how people made decisions. How they valued different things in their lives, and what happened when those values conflicted. What happened when they changed their minds. Or when they lost or changed what had been a core part of their identity, like their religion or their relationship status. Stories of emotion, rather than persuasion. Stories of care and fear and wonder, rather than certainty and productivity and achievements.

I was never going to post every day, but the posture was the same – getting thoughts out of your head, in a logical order and out into the world is a skill that can be built by reps. Posting every day, once a week, once a month, whatever. No-one’s counting except me. Just write. And I tried. And naturally, as I did, the inspiration came from much more interesting places than where I spent eight hours every weekday.

And now the preamble can conclude. I can actually write about what I came here to say to you. Now we come to what’s going on underneath this post, really – a recent session with my psychologist about authenticity. How do we know who we really are? Are we just a basket case of mimetic desires (wanting something because someone else wants it), primed to want what we see or learn about from those around us, or intentionally rebelling against the status quo for the same reasons? Are our true selves defined in relation to everyone and everything else? How can I be sure about what I really want, and who I am, when all I can think about is what other people think of me?

I have no idea the answers to any of this. I remember what it feels like to steal the hours from comfort. Remember that awful feeling of pulling up a blank Word document with a germ of an idea, a sentence, a wishy-washy thought that’s about to slip through my fingers, and starting anyway. Remember the despondency when I had to go back and read my shitty first draft, and it’s even worse than I thought. Remember when a piece starts to wink at me – when my words naturally change from what I was posturing to be seen to be writing about, and the essence starts to shine through, and I catch a glimpse of my true self, with all those flaws I try so desperately to hide or dampen or ignore. Remember what it felt like to get my husband’s feedback about the Blackberries trilogy. Remember seeing a post I’d whittled away at in the dark hours of the morning before I went to work, masterfully edited and posted on The Spinoff. Remember the joy when my phone lights up after a post went out, and a friend tells me exactly what they loved about my writing that morning. It is terrifying and exhilarating, and so far the resistance is worth it.

Part of trying to answer this question as faithfully and whole-heartedly as I know how is not just keeping the posts up for future employers, staff, team members, family members, and friends to see, but continuing to write and find my “voice” in a public way. When I think about it logically, it’s highly likely that zero jobs have come as a direct result of anyone reading my writing. I highly doubt my blogs have changed the mind of any past or potential employer. But the writing has changed me.

I want to be the kind of person that doesn’t feel the need to show my whole self wherever I am, but still takes pride in everything I bring to the table. I want to care less… much, much less, about what other people think of me. I want to keep stretching my bravery muscle. I want to be reflective and fair, and take a stand when I believe it’s right, and annoy some people, and be OK with it. I want to be softer, so I can listen and sit with what’s bigger than us, and let it settle in me.

Time will tell how this will actually happen. Maybe I’ll unpack it all with my psychologist instead. Maybe this space will turn fictional or change form. Maybe I will set myself a goal of posting daily, just to see what comes out. Maybe I’m all talk at the end of a delightfully relaxing weekend.

But whatever it means, I have decided to chase more of the things that make me soft, because that gives me a much greater chance of being able to metabolise them, and put them out here.

Regardless, thank you for staying around when it went quiet.