By: A Hobbyist

I asked 20 people to describe me as thoroughly as possible, and the responses resounded near-unanimously: They’re a musician. An athlete. An artist, writer, programmer, mathematician. An eccentric with a drive to create. These flattering and complimentary responses left a lopsided grin on my face, tainted by persistent feelings of emptiness and futility that mark me a hollow shell devoid of true character. Why am I defined by what I do on a daily basis rather than who I truly am? Have I ever shaken hands with the elusive shadow that exists in those cracks in time when appointments, hobbies, and bookings fade away?

I am proud to announce myself to be the first case of self-produced music; the first example of self-playing drums. Self-written code has been around for a while now, so I can scratch that one. The first case of a self-solving equation. This article has no author; it was written by a peculiar 6-by-2-foot rectangular void that consumes the oxygen around it and spits out some type of material product.

The simple conundrum is that productivity is not constant. There is never a guarantee that we will have the time, energy, willpower, or even novelty of ideas necessary to pluck the fruits of creativity. Over-identification with hobbies is a historical plague on artists that destroys any fleeting feelings of passion or self-worth that may grace them.

Eventually, my light-switch brain flips low, plunging me into neurochemical hell as my artistic output slowly grinds to a halt. Months mark the period in which my tools of trade remain untouched. Others recognize my state and provide misguided reassurance that leaves me black and blue—niceties that remind me that no matter how worthless I feel, I’m an artist, a writer, an athlete; clearly a fiery hobbyist who has been stomped to ash. If I am what I do, then who am I at this point? Perhaps I’m reduced to a putrid cocktail of tears and alcohol with a sour hint of social isolation.

Even the antithetical state to the aforementioned is but a farcical illusion of productivity. Any attempt at creation is restricted by frantic circular thinking, dramatically flinging myself at far-fetched goals with all the focus of a fire ripping about a forest. I work in circles, producing new flaws with each faux-pas “forward” until I’m left with a disgusting heap of sludgy, unrectifiable gibberish. I once spent 5 hours repeatedly uninstalling and reinstalling the same coding compiler, a job that takes maybe 30 minutes, even if you fall victim to its most tedious bugs. In those periods, I must yet again ask: Who am I? If I’m a product of productivity, then I am certainly a disgrace to my own nature if I have become so adept at ruining my own work.

This lament is certainly not solitary. Artists and employees alike understand the idea of investing in your craft so deeply that you lose sight of life’s other pillars. If you can’t distinguish your essence from your work, then what will you do but work until your essence melts away? A healthy worker, no matter how passionate, surely has days in which they long for the fresh air that lies a mere metre outside their office. As academic as I may be, I still frequently yearn for the end of a lecture; the release of the harness that keeps me from indulging in my artistic passions.

Perhaps the golden ticket to happiness is the quest for the fundamental aspects of oneself that lie outside of any tangibles. Ask yourself what your hobbies represent. Am I an artist, or am I a passionate seeker of novelty? Am I an athlete, or do I love the feelings of support, comradery, and collective success? Loneliness is a daunting notion, but perhaps the key to understanding yourself is forged in the eye of a hurricane; in those few quiet moments in which you can get away with doing nothing. Because you are not your hobbies. Your hobbies are a reflection of your most important tenets, and conflating these two will surely be the death of you. I have much more to say, but I think I’ll set my keyboard down for now; I’d like to find myself.