Busy Because Afraid

Why I Fail at Essentialism

Photo by Aarón Blanco Tejedor on Unsplash

Readers, I have a problem.

In March of this year, I read Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less by Greg McKeown. It’s an incredibly inspiring book about how you’re probably doing too much, and you’d be fitter and happier and more productive if you stopped doing most of that stuff and focused only on the stuff you do best. The book guides the reader through a process of determining what’s essential, then eliminating the rest. Think Marie Kondo, but instead of attacking your closet, she’s attacking your calendar.

At the time I read it, I was:

• Being a dad

• Writing a novel

• Working with a personal trainer

• Co-producing a podcast

• Playing every weekend in an 80s Cover Band

• Shooting video content for my friend’s gaming channel

• Learning songs for another musical project

So inspired was I by Essentialism that I sat down and took a good, hard look at my life. Then, instead of crossing off any of the things on my list, I started this newsletter. Oh, and I made it into a podcast, too.

I have a problem.

I want to do too many things, and I cannot seem to let any of them go. I’m writing this in the hope that, when I get to the end of the page, I will understand why.

Sometimes at bookish events, I get asked, “What inspires you to write?” I feel pressure to come up with a good answer, an inspiring answer, an answer that will make everyone abandon the event immediately and rush to their keyboard to write. But the true answer that seems to come up every time is: FEAR. On some level, I write because I’m afraid of not being seen. Of being forgotten. Unloved. Not making a difference. Maybe that’s why I can’t bear to cross a single item off my list; because I’m afraid THAT’S the thing that will make a difference.

Before I decided to turn pro as a writer in 2011, I had many careers. I was a professional actor. I toured with my rock band. In between, I had a career in sales and marketing, but I was always trying to Make It. Then, on the eve of my 40th birthday, I finally did Make It.

We are supposed to tell ourselves that Making It is a bullshit term, a myth, a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I want to believe that, but I don’t. Or at least, not all the way. The truth is harder to swallow*. (I’ll get to that later.)

Making It has always meant something to me. It meant having my work legitimized by a reputable purveyor of my art. In my acting days, that meant being represented by a well-known agent and booking roles on primetime network TV shows. As a musician, it meant getting signed to a major label and going on tour. Some of those things happened to me, but only kind of. I had a good agent, but only B-level one. I landed roles on big shows, but they were only guest stars. I toured the US with my band, but on my own dime.

I have craved this kind of institutional validation since I was single digits. It’s a hunger pain I’ve lived with as long as I can remember. I’ve had snacks here and there (TV and touring), but the hunger always returns.

But then, finally, on the eve of my fortieth birthday, hardcover copies of Symptoms of Being Human hit bookshelves across the globe in four languages. A major publisher’s imprint was embossed on their spines. The book made lists and earned nominations and even won an award. And, most importantly, I could walk into my local Barnes and Noble and see its white cover shining in the YA section like a little beacon of reassurance that I was out there. I mattered. I was having an impact.

So, you’d say, “Voila, Jeff! You’ve Made It as a writer. Clearly, that’s where you’ll have the most impact! That is your Essential thing! Take Greg McKeown’s advice and lean into it! Embrace it! Buy a vintage typewriter, light up a Gauloises, and get writing!”

But I didn’t do those things. Instead, I adopted kids, joined a band, and started a podcast.

*The “harder truth to swallow” I mentioned earlier is this: you can Make It, but the hunger won’t go away.

I don’t know what my point is. I started this blogsletter thing so I could “interact with my audience” in an “authentic way.” Authentically, I don’t even know what that means. Social media was twisting my view of myself and the world, so I wanted to quit it—but I was afraid of fading into digital obscurity before my next book came out so I–AAAHHHH okay boom. There it is. I started this substack out of fear. Goddamnit I hate being right all the time.

Is everything about fucking fear? There has to be a better reason to do this. There has to be a healthier, more fulfilling way that doesn’t require hours of meditation and crystals and god forbid doing the Artist’s Way a second time.

I don’t want to quit my podcast. I like doing it. It’s difficult, and it’s fun, and it’s a way to spend time with one of my best friends on the planet. I don’t want to quit the 80s band. It helps pay the bills and it satisfies my itch to perform, something writing only does at events surrounding a book launch.

Greg McKeown, I have failed you. Take my lightsaber. Rip the patch off my uniform. Tear up my diploma.

I have to go now, I was supposed to post this six hours ago.

Oh, hey, one more thing: I’m not doing this as a podcast anymore. Is that growth?

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