I started recording the things I was reading and watching because I wanted to prove to the skeptical and critical parts of my brain that I was, in fact, earning my air. My brain has an unfortunate tendency to reduce the hours of my days to “did nothing, learned nothing, and mostly wasted time.”
Writing things down is a way to stamp “paid” on some of the lies my inside voice is trying to persist with.
“See,” I can say to it, “I have receipts. I can prove I did productive things with my time.” I still struggle there. I still feel as though I need to account for all the moments of my existence. It’s an oddity – it’s not like I get a salary or benefits for existing. It’s just life.
Of course, the inside voice will probably look to attack the quality of my offerings once it loses the “you do nothing” argument, but it’s going to be out of luck there. I’ve never been snobbish with my entertainment choices, and there’s no shame in my reading game. King sits next to Kirkegaard on the shelves, and I stand proud of my affection for the happy ever after.
From Famine to Feast. 