WATCHING THE CLOCK WATCHING ME
A32-year-old man walks into a bar and walks out after a two-hour encounter with an unfulfilled bartender, leaving a hefty tip.
The man is me. The bartender hates his job. He wants to be a conscious rapper, but not every breakout star is discovered on YouTube or Instagram and offered a record deal — many talented upstarts fizzle out because they can’t afford a career in music.
Serving drinks and making conversation with me in a bar occupied only by myself and an obnoxious lecturer (who made a point of telling me I was at his regular table) is this bartender’s cross to bear — he’s trying to make enough money to afford studio time. On a decent night he makes R500. He’s unlikely to make that tonight, even with my tip.
I know this because we found ourselves lamenting the subjects of time and age. He is, like me, 32 years old — a man worried about being left behind.
He asks me what I do for a living and whether I am fulfilled. I give him the stock response I’ve become comfortable rolling out when the question about life purpose and career fulfilment gets asked; I’m doing what I have to do in order to get to where I want to be. I’m reminded of Denzel Washington’s character in The Great Debaters. He tells his mentees: “We do what we have to do, so that we can do what we want to do.”
It’s simple: pay your dues and the universe rewards you smartly. Except we live in a time when gratification is hard to come by and even when we reach that Utopian moment, time to enjoy it is fleeting. We’re on to the next thing.
I tell the bartender that I work in a demanding environment, mostly administrative, and that I haven’t had the space to be able to do what I dream of doing: writing a novel, maybe more than one.
I don’t bore him talking about the mornings and nights I’ve racked my brain thinking about how to turn around the manuscript I’ve been sitting on for years, or how I’ve consumed litres of coffee in front of my laptop, not producing anything that can be called a draft. I’ve watched interviews of my favourite writers talking about their processes and the sources of their inspiration. Hanya Yanagihara, who wrote her magnum opus A Little Life in a matter of weeks talks about coming home daily from work and writing her novel.
I’m reminded of Nnedi Okorafor’s tweets dismissing writer’s block. “Fatigue exists. Procrastination exists. Laziness exists, distraction exists. Restlessness exists. Not really being a writer exists. Life events exist. Boredom exists. Excuses exist. Writer’s block does not exist,” she tweeted. All I read was: “Not really being a writer exists.”
Cue another meltdown.
The truth is, I don’t believe we all carry extraordinary gifts in us, but I’ve always believed that if we do, my gift is writing. I’m not sure I’m capable of reaching the heights of Toni Morrison or Ta-Nehisi Coates, but I have something to work towards. A purpose.
I told the barman to have patience. He told me he’d heard that a million times. He’d worked on his dream for a decade and felt no closer to realising it. I was stumped. I know that the anxiety around fulfilling one’s purpose is affected by time and age. But our journeys are also affected by many other variables. I lead an anxiety-riddled life because of the importance we’ve placed on time and age. It’s an unshakeable barometer of success.