No articles this week (or, Who Am I Without Work?)

It's a foolish question to ask, am I more than the work I do? Am I more than my job? And yet, it's not. Because I know that I still exist even if nothing gets published, even if nothing has been completed. And yet, my life is centered around work. I say to people, without irony or humor, that all I do is work. That's an exaggeration, of course, but there is a lot of truth to it. After all I'm alone, I don't date, I don't go out much. I measure my day by work completed, words written, books read, miles walked.

I believe on many levels that I exist outside and independent of the work that I do and the things that I accomplish. I do because I think that it's impossible to logically think otherwise. And yet, my life does not seem to extend past those boundaries.

Sometimes I feel as though I'm simultaneously living my life and considering it through a philosophical lens which may or may not have anything to do with my day to day.  Which I suppose could be argued is the nature of a lot of philosophy.

And so of course part of me thinks that nothing was published because quite simply I'm not working hard enough. We can blame it on the Protestant ethic and all that. Even though half a dozen publications have more than a dozen articles from me. To say nothing of the articles that are in progress. To say nothing of the agent who has my novel. To say nothing of all the work I did last week. I still feel lazy with nothing to show for it.

Would doing more and doing other things negate this feeling? Or would that feeling still exist but I would have other feelings that would allow me to shrug it off better? To be able to accept that some aspects of my life did not go great but other parts did? I don't know. I suppose in the same way that having a network on family and friends and relationships with people who serve different purposes and roles in our lives is a healthier and better way to live than simply have one primary person who shoulders much of that psychic weight.

Or perhaps this is merely a physical manifestation of how loneliness damages one's health? (Something I am writing about)

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