It’s that time of year again. Scrambling through invoices, fishing for receipts, wondering if that notebook with the prone nude goddess on the cover counts as a work expense if you use it for keeping writing ideas, but also your shopping list, and as a love calculator.
This is when your accounting friends, and your freelance colleagues shift to the top of your WhatsApp list and everyone else goes unanswered. Where I hit my dad with frantic calls to drop up my Leaving Cert Maths book so I can research differentiation. Only to realise it is depreciation that I am trying to learn about. And why is everything going down in value?
It’s tax season. And I am, once again, lamenting that I did not start the process sooner.
In my first year of submitting a return as a freelancer, I rang Revenue to make sure I was doing it correctly.
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“What happens if I do something wrong?” I asked the woman on the other end of the line.
“Why would you do something wrong?”
“Not on purpose,” I explained, “I just mean what happens if I make a mistake”?
“Don’t make a mistake.”
Her response was curt, although her colleague was very kind when, several months later, they alerted me to the fact, that while I had filled out my form correctly, I had stumbled at the final hurdle of pushing the “submit” button.
[ What would we do if we didn’t fear embarrassment?Opens in new window ]
Anyway, after the books have been balanced, the panic subsided, the form submitted and money paid, the tax return period, can become a time of reflection.
What did I achieve last year?
What do I want to achieve next year?
Did I spend my time and money wisely?
Somewhat surprising, and disappointing, is the answer to this first question: not very much at all.
I like to think, that each year, outside of journalism, I complete at least one substantial project. These have included a selection of audio stories for children with theatre company Super Paua, or a children’s book in Cape Clear, or my role as writer in residence with Sirius Arts Centre.
But 2023? Little to brag.
At the launch of the Safe to Create, AMPLIFY: A Call for Transformative Action report, I was struck by a comment made by my friend Emilie Conway (jazz singer and founder of DADA Campaign for Human and Cultural Rights). How do we, disabled people, measure success, she pondered, when for many of us our capacity for output is lesser and slower.
Often, when I meet someone I haven’t seen in a long time, they compliment my work by commenting that I seem to be “publishing” a lot. Achievement measured by quantity of output rather than quality. More is the measure of success.
But “more” to a sick body also means more sickness, more stress, more doctor’s visits and medication and sick leave. This ultimately ends in less (wellness, money, fun, free time). Or deficit if we want to stick to the terms in question.
[ Brigid O’Dea: My attempt to describe an acute migraine attackOpens in new window ]
When you live with chronic illness, doing more of one thing comes at a cost of doing less of another. To focus on a specific writing project for a period, might come at the cost of personal goals, such as learning to drive, trying a new treatment regime or something nice like falling in love. Overdo it, and I am robbing hours from the next day’s productive period, and probably the day after that. And the day after that.
Creating art, as a disabled person, can become a Faustian bargain of sorts whereby we trade our health to fulfil creative desires or achieve some form of tangible success. But isn’t such a bargain tragic by nature? And the bargainer destined to lose?
So, how do we measure achievement? Is it a case of better writing, better opportunities, better paid work? Or is it simply finally being able to say no to projects that are not fulfilling that do not value our time, expertise, and health?
Or is it something else entirely?
Like remembering to push the submit button.
Or learning that most mistakes can be rectified.