Hey friends,
Welcome to my update! This is a series documenting the process of writing and publishing my Chinese memoir that tells the story of me being Taiwanese, and how I perceived my identity changes over time. This includes studying in the States, quitting my 9-5, becoming an online creator and digital nomad, marrying into a white family, and becoming a mother.
How much I wrote last week
I wrote a total of 705 mins and 10194 words last week.
Reflections
Adapting to New Parenting Schedule
My daughter turned one, which means that she gradually transitioned from two naps to one nap. My writing time also goes from 3.5 hours to 1.5 hours on the days I take care of her. I was at first a bit frustrated. It took me some time to accept that this is the new normal. Now I’m just grateful that I started writing while she was still “young,” so I can get so much closer to the finish line now.
Accidentally deleted my writing
I was writing a banger about my inner world when I first started traveling with my husband. I thought I was pretty honest about my emotions, until I found out somehow Google just did not save that one hour of writing and had to rewrite all over again. I was concerned the second version wouldn’t be as good, but it turned out I uncovered even more things that I wasn’t aware of in the first version! Blessing in disguise I guess?
Snippet of the Week
This week’s snippet is the part I had to rewrite again. I wrote about how insecure I was when I started traveling nomadically without having a proper “work title”. I sunk into an existential crisis every time someone asked me, “What do I do?”. I could have been so carefree during our lockdown days on the Canary Island, but the lack of structure and routine started to eat me away. My strategy of dealing with the insecurity was overworking myself, and constantly obsessing over how I could make money from my podcast.
遊牧生活的真實工作樣貌
一開始,數位遊牧生活的自由感令人暈眩.終於早上不用在設鬧鐘,我可以睡到飽再起床、午晚餐自己選時間吃,想休息就休息.沒人規定我幾點要打卡、幾點可以下班.我是自己時間的主人,不用在裝病請假.剪輯音頻到一半想運動,就跑去陽台訓練一個小時再回來.不想工作又沒其他事情做的時候,我就會躺在吊床上,看著白色雲朵的邊際不斷變換消散,在藍色天空慢慢地飄過.反正明天又是重複一樣的一天,再加倍工作回來就好.
然而這樣悠閒的日子沒有持續多久,我便開始被一股存在焦慮所淹沒.在德特內里費島的那幾個禮拜,我和保羅自由自在地移動,頂多和收銀員簡短的交談,不太需去面對自己已經沒有一個正常的工作這件事.但是現在我們又變成了人類社群的一份子,當大家問我做什麼時,我開始陷入了一個存在焦慮.這時的我不再有像是「產品規劃師」、或「健身教練」這樣簡單明瞭地讓別人認識我的身份標籤.那麼我是誰呢?我是音頻主持人嘛?我每週花20幾個小時在製作音頻、但卻沒有任何營利,好像也不夠資格這麼稱呼自己.我算是健身教練嗎?我雖然有在作健身的內容,但卻已經沒有任何一個學生,這樣也可以稱自己是教練嗎?這樣的模糊地帶讓我極端的不安,好像沒有一個明確的工作身份,我就是個失敗的大人.
但是我們是誰這件事,本來就不該被「工作」這件事所定義.作為人我們有這麼多的面相,我們愛這個世界的方式、對於這個世界的好奇心、對於非金錢導向嗜好的追求、或是創造力的展現,這些都是比我們「用什麼方式換收入」這件事還要重要的多,但我什麼工作卻是我們認識、甚至定義一個人的第一個門檻呢?
「你才剛開始創作,這樣的存在焦慮是很正常的.」保羅說.
保羅自己也經歷過這樣的一段時期.當我們在台灣初識時,朋友問起保羅在做什麼,他總是看起來非常不自在、說自己沒在幹嘛.我一陣驚訝,為什麼他不向朋友介紹他的音頻、或他的部落格,那些事情明明就很酷呀!原來那時他也正面臨自己的存在焦慮,他刻意的暫停所有自由顧問接案,全新的探索寫作自己的人生.在沒有收入的情況下,他也覺得自己很不成功.但經過一年的時間,他對於這樣的模糊狀態有自信多了.當別人問起做什麼時,他總是翹皮的回答:「在網路上亂搞些有得沒的.」
雖然我要再經過兩年的時間,才在寫作的療癒過程中開始和這樣的焦慮和解.但當時的我可沒有這個智慧.當大家在茶餘飯後聊著自己最近接案的工作時,我只覺得自己努力在藏著心中那個見不得人的「秘密」,也就是我雖然過著人人稱羨的遊牧生活,但自己卻沒有任何收入!我的存款在當健身教練的最後幾個月早就燒完了,而在遊牧的這段日子,靠得都是保羅的支持.想到在台灣的爸媽都快成為政府定義的銀髮族年紀,都還在省吃儉用工作,作為女兒的我不僅沒有在賺錢、沒有拿錢回家,甚至還在風光明媚的島嶼爽爽的過日子!作為過去曾是社會學的研究生,我覺得自己就是那個既得利益者、是 「priviledge」 這個字的完美定義,我感到十分的羞愧.套句朋友們有時「玩笑般」說得真心話,我著實是成了靠白人先生「吃軟飯」的無用亞洲女子.
我深怕在遊牧路上認識的朋友知道我是靠「吃軟飯」過活後,會瞧不起我、不願接受我、與我做朋友.這樣的不安全感讓我像個退休老人一樣,不斷地向他人不必要地提起自己在上班族的風光事蹟、並過於著急地急地尋找可以將音頻營利的方式.我也發展出了一個補償的方式:沒日沒夜的工作.我開始早上在各種焦慮的思緒中醒來,在大家都還在睡覺時,我便摸黑到客廳開始工作.晚上大家都上床休息時,我卻還獨自一人在電腦前不斷趕自己給自己訂下的節目撥出死限.這個過度自由的遊牧生活,變成任何時間都可以是工作時間.吃飯洗澡的時後想著我應該快點吃完去工作,任何時刻都變成可以工作的時刻,休息時總是充滿罪惡感.我開始懷念上班族那個工作和生活界線分明,下班後就可以把工作拋出腦海之外、好好工作的生活.
「到底誰是那個在腦袋裡使喚你的老闆啊?」保羅不解地說.
他說得沒錯,明明已經沒有任何人使喚我做人和工作,我卻因為這個自己創造的焦慮再自己解圍的的無限迴圈裡打轉.也許因為太想要快點有收入,我看音頻創作的方式也因為這個感到匱乏的濾鏡而變得扭曲.明明一個合作愉快的訪談,我只將其解釋成自己佔用了來賓的時間為自己創造內容、好讓未來可以盈利,卻不願意接受我的訪談也是幫來賓免費宣傳的行銷方式、有時甚至在對話過程中替對方生命釐清了一些難題.這樣匱乏的心態,讓我在做任何再簡單不過的事時,都在心理上感到無限的掙扎、處處害怕來賓會不會覺得我在佔他們的便宜、或踩到了他們的底線?
那時因為疫情,歐美大部分公司都變成遠距工作,上班族們要馬被遣散沒事做、要嘛在家有錢又有閒.保羅在峇里島時大翻修教授策略顧問技能的那門課程,原本好幾個月都沒什麼銷售,突然開始大賣.看到保羅如此成功的我,不管三七二十一的把他幾乎當作能夠通靈的導師.我一天到晚巴著他問東問西,社團應該怎麼經營啦、Podcast 應該怎麼發展啦,期待他能給我一個簡單明嘹的答案.但保羅自己覺得自己的成功除了不斷地努力和嘗試、再加上天時地利人合外,根本沒什麼可複製的方法.他只知道他選擇了這條這輩子絕對不再當雇員的路,如果要做任何事,不管是寫作、課程、或音頻,都必須是因為自己真心想做、自己真的覺得好玩、不違背自己的準則,才去做.不然,如果把自己創作的意志交給了所謂的市場決定,那當網路創作者跟公司僱員有什麼差別?還不如回去當顧問,收入隨便都比創作多、也不用無時無刻都要去克服不創作確定感.
「工作要好玩?這是什麼鬼邏輯?」一開始聽到這樣的思考框架時,我只是嗤之以鼻.工作不就應該感到埋頭苦幹、心不甘情不願的不是嗎?我總覺得自己先生是個怪咖、人類的特例,至少從小到大在我的認知裡,沒有人是真的喜愛他們的工作,大家都認為工作是是不得不在社會存活的犧牲.或者這麼說好了,為工作犧牲、感受到情緒上的折磨,才是一個成熟大人的表現.畢竟那時我還沒遇到其他真心熱愛工作、每分每秒都享受自己在做的事的創業家,以及那些看穿了遊戲規則,找到以最舒服、最適合自已生活方式遊戲人間的人.而也許我一定要透過在好奇槓鈴上盈利,才能理解盈利並不是創作最終的目的吧.
Translation (Courtesy of ChatGTP!)
The Realities of Nomadic Life
At first, the freedom of digital nomad life was dizzying. No more alarm clocks in the morning; I could sleep in and choose when to have my meals. I could rest whenever I pleased. No one dictated when I had to clock in or out. I was the master of my own time, free from feigning illness to take a day off. If I felt like exercising in the middle of editing audio, I could just dash to the balcony for an hour of training before returning. When I didn't feel like working and had nothing else to do, I'd lounge on the hammock, watching the ever-changing edges of white clouds dissipate against the blue sky. Since tomorrow was just another repetition of today, putting off work and do it all together the next day seemed fine.
However, this leisurely lifestyle didn't last long before I began to feel engulfed by an existential anxiety. During those weeks on the island of Tenerife, Paul and I roamed freely, engaging in brief conversations at most with cashiers, largely avoiding the reality that I no longer had a conventional job. But now, we were back among human circles, and when people asked me what I did, I started to spiral into existential angst.
No longer did I have clear labels like "product planner" or "fitness coach" to define myself to others. So who was I? Was I an podcast host? Despite spending over 20 hours a week producing audio content, without any profit, I felt unqualified to call myself that. Was I a fitness coach? Though I created fitness content, I had no students anymore. This ambiguity left me profoundly unsettled, as if lacking a clear job identity made me a failed adult.
But who we are should not be defined by our jobs. As humans, we encompass so much more—how we love the world, our curiosity about it, pursuits beyond monetary gain, and expressions of creativity—all far more important than how we earn income. So why is our job the first threshold by which we recognize or even define a person?
'You've just begun your creative journey; such existential anxiety is normal.'Paul said.
Paul himself had gone through a similar phase. When we first met in Taiwan, he always seemed uncomfortable when friends asked what he did, claiming he wasn't really doing anything. I was surprised; why didn't he proudly introduce his podcasts or his blog, things that were undeniably cool? It turns out he was grappling with his own existential anxiety, deliberately pausing all freelance consulting gigs to embark on a new journey of self-exploration through writing. With no income, he felt unsuccessful. But after a year, he became more confident in this ambiguous state. When asked what he did, he would playfully reply, "Fucking around on the internet.”
Though it took me another two years to start addressing this anxiety through the healing process of writing, at the time, I lacked such wisdom. As others chatted about their recent freelance projects during tea time, I only felt the weight of my concealed "secret": despite living the enviable nomadic life, I had no income!
My savings from my days as a fitness coach had long run out, and during this nomadic period, I relied solely on Paul's support. Thinking of my parents in Taiwan, nearing retirement age, still scrimping and saving, while their daughter not only didn't earn money or bring any home, but also lived carefree on a beautiful island, left me feeling deeply ashamed. As someone who had once studied sociology, I felt like the perfect embodiment of "privilege," deeply ashamed. As friends sometimes jokingly said, I had become a useless Asian woman living off a white man.
I feared that if friends I met on the nomadic journey discovered I was living off someone else, they would look down on me, refuse to accept me, or even avoid befriending me. This insecurity led me to constantly brag like a retired elder, unnecessarily recounting my past glories as a corporate worker, and desperately seeking ways to monetize my podcast content. I also developed a coping mechanism: working tirelessly day and night. I began waking up amidst anxious thoughts, starting work in the dark before everyone else was awake. While others slept, I worked alone in the living room. When everyone else went to bed, I remained at the computer, racing against the deadlines I set for myself.
This excessive freedom of nomadic life turned every moment into work time. Even during meals and showers, I thought about finishing quickly to get back to work. Every moment became a potential work moment, and relaxation was always accompanied by guilt. I began to yearn for the clear boundary between work and life that I had as a corporate worker, where I could leave work behind and enjoy life after hours.
"Who's the boss commanding you in your head?" Paul asked, puzzled.
He was right; even though no one was telling me how to live or work, I found myself trapped in an endless loop of anxiety that I created and had to untangle myself from.
Perhaps because I desperately wanted income, I began to distort the way I approached podcast creation through this lens of scarcity. What should have been a pleasant collaborative interview, I interpreted as me taking up the guest's time for my own content creation, with the aim of future profits, without acknowledging that my interviews were also a form of free promotion for the guests, and sometimes even helped them clarify difficult issues during the conversation. This scarcity mindset made even the simplest tasks feel like a constant struggle, always fearing that guests would think I was taking advantage of them or crossing their boundaries.
At that time, due to the pandemic, most companies in Europe and America transitioned to remote work, leaving employees either laid off with nothing to do or at home with money and leisure. While in Bali, Paul revamped a course teaching consulting skills, which hadn't sold much for several months, suddenly started selling well. Seeing Paul's success, I almost treated him as a mystical mentor, bombarding him with questions about how to manage communities or develop podcasts, hoping for a simple and clear answer. But Paul believed his success stemmed not just from continuous effort and timing, but also from choosing a path where he would never be an employee again. Whatever he did, whether it was writing, teaching, or audio, had to be something he truly wanted to do, found fun, and didn't compromise his principles. Otherwise, if he let the market dictate his creative will, what difference would there be between internet creators and corporate employees? He might as well go back to consulting, where income was always higher, and not constantly struggle with the uncertainty of creative path.
[….]
"Work should be fun? What kind of logic is that?" When I first heard this framework of thought, I scoffed. Shouldn't work be about toiling away, reluctantly? I always thought my husband was an oddball, an exception among humans. At least from my upbringing, no one truly loved their work; everyone believed that work was a sacrifice necessary for survival in society. Or rather, sacrificing for work, experiencing emotional torment, was a sign of maturity. After all, at that time, I hadn't encountered entrepreneurs who genuinely loved their work, enjoying every moment of what they did, or those who understood the rules of the game, finding ways to live life comfortably and suitably within their own lifestyles. And perhaps I had to profit from my curiosity to understand that profit wasn't the ultimate goal of creation.
Looking back, I couldn't blame myself for my scarcity. Just like a fish in water unaware of the water's existence, I was in an extremely impoverished state, unable to see any other choices beyond experiencing the world from such a negative framework. I didn't know that creation and work could actually be "abundant" experiences. In a state of abundance, I could create and work with peace of mind, eagerly help others, and sincerely hope for their success. Life could be so carefree, warm, and full of hope, just like the state I am in when writing.
Preorder my book!
Are you interested in my stories? Do you read Chinese or know someone who reads Chinese that will be interested in my book? Now, you can preorder my book for $10! This book, with a tentative title, Made in Taiwan, is estimated to be published in 2024. It will be helpful for anyone who’s exploring who they are and wanting to reinvent their life while battling imposter syndrome. Or anyone interested in living an untraditional life!
Thank you for reading!
See ya next week!
Angie