What Does It Mean to Be Useful?

on a little bird named Lucy and the ways we spend our days

There are days when I wake up and my body and mind are made of sludge.

When I am sludge, I take my morning medications, drink something caffeinated and a glass of water, and wait for my molecules to take the form of a useful woman. Because usefulness, as I have long been taught to believe, is the only reason to exist. Because there are only so many ways to be useful, and if I can't tick the box of at least one of them, my day has drifted away from me: an empty box on the calendar with nothing to show for it.

So I'm terribly relieved on the days when I can think and work and make something of myself, eventually, which includes answering emails, making progress on ongoing projects, meetings, working on my forthcoming novel, creating sales pages, and tending to the mentorships that are growing in my garden. On the days when I can do things, and I feel as though I'm being productive in the ways society has dictated that I must (which generally means money-making tasks), I feel as though I'm on the podium with a gold medal.

And on the days when I can't think and work and end up asleep and unwell, poised at the end of the diving board without any way to make the leap, I feel badly about myself and badly about my day. Despite all of my efforts to adjust what I think about productivity and its meaning as a measure for what makes me worthwhile, a day without work has been nothing; it's a day that decreases my value as a person.

I missed posting last week's Substack because I had a terrible gastric incident that meant living in the bathroom for seven days. I was miserable because we were on a trip with friends and family to celebrate C's one-year bone marrow transplant anniversary, and I couldn't eat, play games, or go out; my body was miserable, and along with the miserable body was the meta-misery of punishing myself for not participating in life and work.

A few days ago, I was sludge once more and spent the day in bed. I slept. I could not do anything on my to-do list. The hours passed, and the closer nighttime came, the worse I felt about myself.

Toward the end of the day, C asked if I would sit with him and paint. I didn't think I could; I said yes because I wanted to try. For an hour, I painted a robin that I named Lucy, and I posted Lucy on the Notes section of Substack with the caption:

I did nothing useful all day, but I just painted this bird, and that will have to be enough.

And when I came back later, I saw hundreds of replies gently telling me that I was not entirely correct in my statement. Generous readers replied to tell me that the joy of my painting improved their day, or to say that making the world more beautiful is more than enough. Painting is useful. Art is useful. I know this to be true because when it comes to my values, I do believe in the utility of art. But it's so easy to neglect my own belief because I'm programmed to believe that everything I do must be Useful, i.e. Make Money, in for me to be worthwhile, which is simply not true.

I'm grateful for the people who commented to remind me that a little painted bird named Lucy can be enough for a day. Sometimes, my friend Sarah said to me recently, "just your breathing is very, very useful."

One beautiful thing that I’ve been working on is the relaunch of The Unexpected Shape Writing Academy, which will be coming out in a new form soon. Not only will it be heaps more useful and more focused on actively helping you learn and grow as a writer, but it will also be at a significantly lower cost: $67/month. People who are currently members at the higher price will be able to remain students at the new monthly fee. To kick it off, we’ll begin August with a Ten-Page Trailblaze, where you’ll write ten pages (or more!) with support, camaraderie, and joy. Learn more about our Academy relaunch and join the waitlist here.