CULTURE

When Your Hobby Becomes A Job

Be careful what you wish for — you just might get it

We all recognize the idiom as a warning, though it seems like a fairly counterintuitive statement: “Be careful what you wish for — you just might get it.” Why would we ever be upset about getting what we want? How could that ever be a bad thing? In a nutshell, it’s because we have no idea what will make us happy, no idea what we actually want. And whatever it is, it’s almost assuredly not what we think it will be.

But there is another reason to consider, and that is that too much of a good thing, is also a very real danger when it comes to our happiness. A little White Castle is good, too much will make you sick, and most of us are incapable of gauging where that line is.

When I was in my 20s I lived near this bar that I would sometimes hang out at. This was the Queen Village neighborhood of Philadelphia back in the 90s. It was called the New Wave, but there wasn’t anything new wave about it. It was just your typical neighborhood dive bar. In the back was a pool table, and that’s where I spent all my time.

It began with playing on weekends. Four quarters bought you a game. You’d wait your turn, get on the table, and then do everything in your power not to lose control of it. On a hot night, you and a partner could spend hours playing without losing. As far as bar patrons were concerned, I was pretty good. Good enough to catch the eye of the bar league team. They asked me to join them, and I agreed.

League night was Tuesday, the least busy night for most bars. We played the other local bars in the area, either home or away. There were five members per team, or at least five that played each match. You were ranked from a six to a two. If you were a four, you had to beat your opponent four times in order to win. If you were a two, playing a six, you only had to win two games, while they had to win six. It was a means of handicapping players. If you won a lot of your games, your ranking increased. Most of the time, the captains would square up equally ranked players. Threes played threes. Sixes played sixes.

I began as a two, I think. I think maybe everyone did. One of the captains said I was a two who played like a four. I was good but not great, especially at a league level, but I was also inconsistent. I would often play above my head a beat a better play and then lose to a lesser player the following week.

I’m as competitive as most people, and I certainly wanted to win, but I was really just there to have fun. It wasn’t life or death, at least not for me. Some of the other guys on the team didn’t necessarily agree with my nonchalant attitude. They wanted to win, and they liked to coach me, trying to ensure that I played intelligently. They made me think several shots ahead and to strategize my game. But they also micromanaged me and made me nervous. Do this. Don’t do that. Take your time. Don’t miss. In short, they turned it from a fun hobby into a job. It went from something I was relaxed about to something I was anxious about.

When I was playing on the weekends, for the sheer joy of the game, I was having fun. Who really cared if I won or lost? But come Tuesday night, when the stakes were considerably higher, my joy for the game was greatly diminished. I was happy if I won, and sad if I lost. Not just for me, but for my teammates. It was a lot of pressure for a stupid game in a dirty bar.

Before long, I was dreading League night, and I soon quit. I haven’t played competitive pool since, and that was more than 25 years ago. What had once been a passionate hobby became a tedious affair, and who needs that?

For the last three decades and change, I’ve been in the marketing and advertising racket, as a graphic designer, art director, copywriter, creative director, photographer, director, editor, and sometimes even cinematographer.

There is mostly a misquoted line concerning being a jack of all trades but a master of none. The original line is, in fact, a positive view of a well-rounded education. The original reads, “A jack of all trades is a master of none, but oftentimes better than a master of one.” I have always been a jack of all trades and rarely if ever, a master of one.

I’m not a specialist, at least not in my mind. I have many interests and passions that drive a smorgasbord of vocational and avocational activities. For most of my career, I’ve been almost entirely self-taught. I always assumed it would be better for me to know how to do something myself, even if, or even especially if, I was going to ask someone else to do it. I also don’t like having to rely on too many people, so the more self-contained I was, the better. I might as well learn how to do it myself.

Truth be told, I prefer editing to creating. Or, to put it another way, capturing or gathering the raw materials is necessary and even critical to creating something from nothing. Knowing what you don’t need is as important as knowing what you need. But editing is, to me, where the craftsmanship comes in. Editing is the real creative component that is the difference between good and great.

In my decades of editing film, one of the great joys I found was my love for scoring motion pictures. I have never had the opportunity to make a feature, but I’ve done countless commercials, promotional videos, and dozens of short films. Music drives them all, in my opinion.

Scoring a commercial or short film entails finding just the right piece of music that conveys the emotional tone you want your audience to connect with. But it also has to work with the opening, build-up, climax, and finish. That’s a lot to ask in a short film.

One downside to this is that once I’ve chosen a song, you’re killing that song for yourself. No matter how much you like it, you’re likely going to ruin it for yourself forever. For one thing, you have to hear it, over and over, in the most minuscule parts, until it no longer has any meaning. Whatever meaning it did have for you, is now lost.

I’ve been taking pictures since I was fourteen when my father gave me his old Pentax K-1000, 35mm film rangefinder. It was the most basic of cameras and a good one to leave basic photography on. Nothing fancy about it. A simple light meter and a ranger finder focusing tool. Line up the false image, and hope for the best.

I took pictures for years after that, but the cost of film and processing, the mess of chemicals, and the need for a darkroom was all too prohibiting. In 2003, Canon came out with a digital SLR for under $1000. The Canon Rebel was a 6.8-megapixel wonder of technological achievement (for reference, my current phone has a 12mp camera). I went all in, actually spending $2500 on two lenses and $800 on the camera body. Now that I didn’t have to process film and print photos, I began shooting constantly.

I shot what was around me. Friends. Kids. Nature. Pets. I shot strangers on the street, my kids playing sport, and friends sitting around drinking beer. Always with natural light. I shot my 100,000 pictures before I ever bought a single light or had access to studios or models. I learned my craft using what I had, and I do believe it has served me well.

In 2005, Canon introduced the 5D, a 12.8 megapixel DSLR that was closer to a professional camera than the Rebel had ever been. I bought one right away and continued learning and shooting. Then in 2008, they came out with the 5D Mark II and that changed the filmmaking world forever. The Mark II shot full-frame High Definition video, and eventually in full manual mode. It was amazing.

I still shoot with my Canon 5D Mark III on occasion, but I’ve lost track of all the new cameras. There must be dozens of versions now. At some point, I no longer saw the point. Today, I’m more apt to shoot with my iPhone than with my camera. I finally got to the point where I’d done everything I’d really ever wanted to do with a camera. The thrill is gone, as they say. It became just another job.

I never say never, and occasionally I get the itch, but for the most part, I’ve given up on photography. It’s another tool for things like design, and I still love seeing well-made photographs, but I haven’t seen anything I want to do or try in quite some time. It’s a mountain I climbed and I don’t see the need to do it again.

I’ve often fantasized about writing exclusively for work. I’m well aware of the danger of greener pastures, and after three decades of work, I know there is no perfect job, no Shangri-La of passionate employment. A job is always just a job, no matter how fancy you think it is before you do it.

I’ve directed supermodels and broadway legends, I’ve met with global superstar musicians, and hung out backstage with the crew, but at the end of the day, it’s all just a job. Most of what I do is better than digging ditches or a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, but everything becomes commonplace after a while.

So the question is, can I run out my days, as a writer, content to “get my thoughts down on paper,” as it were. Will it sustain me, or will I have to take up fishing or basket weaving or some other old man past time? Will I lose the need to write down my thoughts? God, I hope not.

One thing I know for sure, as soon as you’re getting paying paid to do something, and you have to do it even if you don’t feel like it, or want to, then it’s a job. No matter how great it is, no matter how passionate you are about it, once it becomes a job, it loses a little of its luster.

I’m not suggesting that this is a reason to avoid working in a field you enjoy. I’m suggesting that there is no perfect job and that no matter what, you will become bored and apathetic at some point. You will look for ways to keep it fresh, or you will find something else that occupies that space in your life. Sometimes work is work, no matter what it is, and you have to find something you do for fun. If you monetize all your pleasures, you’re certain to be miserable.

But there is a silver lining.

The value of art — personal art — is in the act, not the result. It’s the process we have to remember to enjoy. My mother has been an artist her entire life, but she didn’t really let loose until she retired from teaching ballet and gymnastics for 40 years. Despite our encouragement, she has never sold a single piece of her art. She does it for herself and for her family. Maybe a few friends.

I think there was a time she enjoyed teaching, but by the end she was doing it for the money and it had become a job. She never wanted her art to feel that way.

I’m reminded of a story she told me about the only time she ever had a yard sale. She dragged all this stuff out into our front yard with little price tags and arranged all pretty. Some woman stopped by and sort of turned her nose up and left. My mother was so angry, she took everything back inside. She figured she wasn’t about to be judged just to make a handful of change. Her memories were worth more than a quarter.

It’s a helpful reminder, in my opinion. Find what your art is. Baking. Gardening. Painting. Writing. Playing an instrument. Working out. Singing. Painting rocks. Whatever. The point is, is that art that you do for yourself is priceless. The only way it can be devalued is if you allow it to be, by asking others to judge its value. That’s what a job is — allowing someone to put a value on your time and energy.

My advice is to find a job you enjoy, but keep some things to yourself as well. You’ll be a lot happier if you don’t put all your worth as a person in your occupation. This is more difficult for men than for women. Women use family or their home as a preoccupation. Men more often define themselves solely by their careers. This is a mistake.

Discover what your art is. Protect it. Cherish it. Don’t judge it, or allow anyone else to either. Enjoy it for what it is.

You’ll be happier, I assure you.