Holiday Schmoliday

Dresden, 1973. CC BY-SA 3.0 DE image via Deutsche Fotothek and Wikimedia Commons. Friends, I thought I wouldn’t write a post today—that I’d take Labor Day weekend off like everyone else.1 But here I am, albeit briefly, pondering the fact that writing, the thing I do for myself, the activity for which I’ve dismissed the possibility of a career or of much financial security in order to have the necessary head space and energy to do it, is work. It often feels like the sort of labor we mean when referring to a dumb job, as in something you wouldn’t choose to do if you were independently wealthy, or were just out to relax and enjoy your day, something over which you have very little say. Most jobs I’ve had have been soul-crushingly pointless, and often served up with a hefty dose of intentional humiliation to boot. But much like what I was unwillingly doing with those forty-hour weeks, where my own self-directed writing is concerned, I don’t even know what I’m expecting to get out of any…