Because of the uncertainty of my anchor project, there’s a detachment I haven’t quite achieved (except in the morning for an hour or two, when I am happily divorced from the entire world of enterprise). And I’m doing one of the things I’m very very good at: but I’m doing it nonstop, all day long.
So I’m a special kind of exhausted at night: physical, mental. And a bit more of the emotional than I’d care to admit.
But, you are wondering, would I trade this mind-grind in for an easier job that includes ego massage on publishers, editors, and the like? After all, I’m pretty freakin’ good at that: I can certainly make men feel very smart, and very attractive, even if I always want to take a shower afterward.
The answer is not just no—but, as they say, hell, no. I’d rather grind just like this, with no letup, until I’m 95 or so. And then die happy.
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I know how you feel, though I intend to just work a half day on the day I die.