On caring too much

Some lessons you learn over and over

Years ago, I was being exceptionally tiresome, grousing about the comics industry and my place in it to the kind, brilliant, successful Marc Guggenheim, who was being exceptionally patient. During a break in my moaning and self-flagellation, Marc gave me some advice: “Try not to care so much.”

At the time, it infuriated me: “Of course it’s easy for Marc Guggenheim not to care! Look at everything he’s accomplished!” I kept my head, largely because of how much I respect Marc; for his intellect, of course, but also for his generosity and ability to smoothly navigate the world. It should come as no serious surprise then that Marc was absolutely right: I was caring way, way too much.

Historically speaking, I’ve been terrible at jobs. Not at actually doing them; that’s easy. I pick things up fast and move quickly; I love crossing tasks off lists. Things go well initially but, on a long enough timeline, they sour. I butt heads with people, I feel unappreciated and taken advantage of, and resentments build. I mistakenly thought that my job was the performance of tasks, as quickly and efficiently as possible.

It’s a component of any job; but that’s all it is. It took me far, far too long to learn the truth: In any job, your real job is to make your boss happy, inclusive of doing good work but also of not creating unnecessary headaches such as those arising from unharmonious workplace conditions and willful subordinates. But doing my job as well as I could was all I cared about. Intensely and narrowly.

I came to fitness and nutrition well into my adult life; I wasn’t happy with how I looked and sought to fix that, as efficiently as possible. A buddy turned me onto the tabata protocol, a particularly brutal approach to high-intensity interval training that has been scientifically proven to burn more fat while retaining more muscle mass. I ramped up to four full 40-minute tabata sessions a week; burpees, mountain climbers, abs, swinging 25lb maces and 35lb kettlebells.

I counted calories. Tracked everything I ate. Hitting macro targets that I adjusted in consideration of my daily weigh-ins and weekly aesthetic assessments. Within eight months, I dropped 45lbs, and was leaner than I’d ever been, ready to start packing muscle back on.

Fast forward. After years of caloric deficits and grueling interval training, every cell of my body ached. Always tired. Always cold. Subject to mood swings. I let up – reduced intensity, increased calories, adjusted macros – but my muscles were still wrecked, in constant pain. I went all in on Stretching Scientifically, which promised to increase flexibility as quickly and safely as possible through the use of Soviet fitness science.

No matter how diligently I followed Stretching Scientifically, my neck, shoulders, back, hips were still excruciating. Yoga, Becoming a Supple Leopard, sadistic masseurs, massage gun, foam rollers of all type, lacrosse balls until I howled. An actual physical therapist got to the bottom of it: Posture overcorrection at every step along my spine and overly loose tendons.

For years upon years, I always had a grip of comics projects at various stages of ideation and completion. Artists pulled in multiple directions, working dayjobs, having families, getting paying jobs, or just flat-out flaking; a half-dozen fired irons was an imperative. I worked up pages of springboards for anyone at any publisher who would listen, pitches for anyone who’d respond, a bespoke comics concept for any artist interested in working with me.

When books were actually completed and released, success was mandatory. Everyone had to know about my books; hammering press outlets, incessant posting, asking absolutely everyone for signal boosts, all while firing up another half-dozen projects. I was a bull in a china shop, fast and reckless; I didn’t care what I broke, just so long as I worked toward my goal, quickly, efficiently, expediently.

But working toward a goal isn’t the same as moving toward it; far too much of the former did me far too little of the latter. What I didn’t understand about Marc’s advice – and so much else – was that caring isn’t a binary. Of course, you should care about everything you do. But with a blinkered focus, consumed by passion and drive – by rules, regimens, regrets and resentments – you can’t accomplish much of anything. And what’s more, when you spread your forces across all fronts simultaneously, none can puncture through the enemy lines.

NEXT TIME: Some actual news.

Aubrey