I'm All Out of Hustle

on the slow collapse of my attempt to be an author

I was all in on writing and hustle culture when I had no debt, a stable job, and no kid.

For years, I wrote at breakneck speed, constantly pushing myself until I hit my peak year: three successful novels in one stretch.

It was miserable, by the way.

I only romanticize it now that it's over. Back then, people would ask me, "Do you enjoy writing?" and I’d think, what does that even mean? No? Yes? I write. That’s all that matters.

Eventually, I’d land on this: I enjoy having written.

That part is still true. I love my books. I love their flaws. I love the way people respond to them, good or bad. I love that they exist. But the process? Mostly horrible, with brief moments of delight.

Things are different now.

Now I have a crushing mortgage, a car lease, and a baby. I'm a dad. My job situation is unstable, and I'm constantly trying to hold onto it or find something better.

Writing? Hustle? It’s nearly impossible.

Not between daycare drop-offs and pickups. Not between house maintenance, interviews, and certification exams.

Yesterday was round one of the SCF. Around this time last year, I was putting the finishing touches on book three. My wife was pregnant. We were still in the apartment. Life was about to change, but hadn’t yet.

I told myself things would change. I just didn’t fully understand what that meant.

Now I do.

Now I never have time. Ever.

I love my life, and I wouldn’t trade it. But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t frustrating. Life with a baby and no support is survival. That’s the truth.

I’ve been trying to write again. It feels like physical rehab after an accident. My muscles are weak, and I can only do a little at a time.

And it’s humbling. Embarrassing, even. I know so many other prolific writers. Many of them are parents. I want to be like them. I want to pound away at the keyboard like before.

But when my daughter gets home and I close my work laptop, I just can’t be the guy who shuts the door and ignores her. Or my wife. That feels wrong. It feels selfish.

I want to soak up that time. It’s precious.

She’s precious.

So maybe I could cut sleep. But I haven’t tried. I’m sick most of the time from daycare colds. Most nights I can’t keep my eyes open past 8 PM.

So I try mornings. I get up at 5 AM. It worked yesterday. Today I needed a nap by noon.

Basically, it’s hard. It doesn’t seem to get easier.

Not yet, anyway. But I keep trying.

Why?

I still don’t know. Maybe it’s a pathology.

But I keep trying.