A writer and a doctor walk into a bar

on downplaying the importance of my work

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this must be the place

Opening the dryer door, I pull out a pair of black scrub pants. The static clings to a solo sock.

I’ve never worn scrubs in my life. My husband, however, has worn scrubs every week since beginning graduate school in 2012. For nearly 15 years, he’d donned a metaphorical sign that says his work is important. His work helps people. His work, inherently, matters.

As a writer, I’ve learned to downplay my work and its contribution to the world.

Sometimes, through concentrated doses of self-deprecation, I can trick someone into cracking a smile. And maybe someone out there tilts their head at what I’ve written, musing, like my dog when I say how obsessed I am with her. Carrying the basket of clothes to be folded up the stairs, it’s tough to compare someone — re: profession — who writes down words to someone who helps patients be able to walk again after a life-altering event.

“Real” Life

When I first had the idea to write about the comparison of “real work” and “art,” and their inherent and/or financial meaning, I was employed. Drawing comparisons between a marketing professional and a doctor of Physical Therapy, I’d noted this idea down in my Drafts folder a few months ago and figured I’d come back to it another day.

And I sure did come back to it: as an unemployed person. Since being laid off a couple of months ago, I’ve had to take this essay in a whole other direction: compare an employed doctor to an unemployed writer.

That feels impossible, to be honest. Here are the various thoughts that come up as I even consider it:

• I don’t properly contribute to our home financially.

• I don’t contribute meaning to the world.

• If a zombie attack (or, even an impending war…) ended civilization as we know it, people would want a doctor nearby over someone who writes funny words sometimes.

• I don’t have the credibility to call myself a writer, anyway.

How I spend my days feels less… important? Significant? Or even real? Real. My days feel less real compared with someone who goes to work, makes an agreed-upon salary, and provides medical care to others.

Hierarchy of Importance

Writing this seems only to bring up more thoughts about how my work — my writing — compares to other professions. (Even using the term “profession” feels like a stretch, considering how little income I currently bring in compared to my past j-o-b.)

But here’s what I’m coming to question: why do I feel I have to compare them at all?

Where is the requirement to be placed somewhere in the hierarchy of importance/meaning?

Following the thread about the zombie attack, I’m reminded of 2020 and how art is what got many through those periods of isolation. Books, movies, music, crafty little hobbies… these were all ways to bring joy/fulfillment/distraction/something to our lives during a depressing, terrifying time.

Recently, the aforementioned doctor and I were watching The Studio on Apple TV. In one of the episodes, the head of a film studio (played by Seth Rogen) is dating a doctor, and he attends a gala event with a bunch of other doctors. Rogen’s character mentions that his job is stressful, and the doctors think he’s joking because, ya know, they’re doctors and they help kids with cancer. And it goes downhill from there while Rogen keeps trying to convince them why art is important, too. His parting line, as he’s heading to a hospital: “You know what’s going to be on my wall? A screen, to watch art.” Or something like that.

Do I think my Substack is as important as a doctor’s work? No. And yet, how does it help me to downplay my work? How does it help anyone?

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Hi! I’m Jordan, and Shade Cactus is where being a homebody and always planning your next travel adventure come to meet. It’s a travel blog / poetry newsletter / attempt to understand my inner world a bit better each day.

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