I woke up one morning last week, or the week before, and there was the question, clear and just there -- is any of this even worth it?
I've been circling that sinkhole on and off for a while for weeks. And I guess, I'm always there, sailing near despair, feeling like my work is nothing, amounts to nothing, isn't enough, and none of it matters. Even if I'm proud of the work I've done, it feels insignificant afterwards, like throwing rocks into a pond. There's a splash and then nothing. And then the question, so what?
I had an editor who used to call this "the grim."
It was encouraging, then, yesterday morning, to read of Slavoj Žižek feeling the same way:
"He opens a copy of Living in the End Times, and finds the contents page. 'I will tell you the truth now,' he says, pointing to the first chapter, then the second. 'Bullshit. Some more bullshit. Blah, blah, blah.' He flicks furiously through the pages. 'Chapter 3, where I try to read Marx anew, is maybe OK. I like this part where I analyse Kafka's last story and here where I use the community of outcasts in the TV series Heroes as a model for the communist collective. But, this section, the Architectural Parallax, this is pure bluff. Also the part where I analyse Avatar, the movie, that is also pure bluff. When I wrote it, I had not even seen the film.'"Which, self loathing, perfectionism, bluff and wanting to be called on it and despair, is pretty much how it feels to me.