Lionfish and unsympathetic complaints

It feels incredibly snotty and ungrateful to have any complaints about doing what I love for a career—I mean, I started out being a small child dreaming about playing the piano and writing, and now here I am as an adult complaining that playing the piano and writing give me anxiety, while other people in the world are having real problems. Come on, me.

This week I thought about the stuff I had to write—this Substack post, a book chapter, any kind of a pitch for VAN—and had to chuckle at the irony of any of this causing me stress whatsoever. Having not one, but multiple platforms, for which I get paid to verbalize the nonsense in my brain, is the dream, especially considering that writing isn’t even my main profession! My main profession is playing the piano and my main upcoming project is that I get to perform a piano concerto arranged for me and I cannot believe I am complaining about ANY of this.

That being said, I do miss the joy of creating things without any real pressure involved, or with my whole identity wrapped up in the stuff I produce. I remember writing being a fairly easy thing for me; if I had an idea (for a story, poem, persuasive essay, whatever), it used to just come spewing out, raw for sure but with an ease that I have a hard time summoning now. It also used to be so easy to channel my energies into music; granted it’s easier for me to express things exactly the way I want now (that’s skill for you) but it’s way more difficult to use music to distract myself from my worries when music is so often now the source of my worries.

This year one of my small goals for myself is to do more creative stuff for myself that isn’t in service to my career or my “brand.” How I will accomplish this when I barely have the energy to do basic career things is…something I will have to figure out.