I’ve been medically prescribed blog-writing. I’m not even kidding.
A statement like that probably needs backstory. So here’s a story, because stories are fun—and in this case, kind of meta:
Once upon a time, there was a little blue robot. He was a fanciful fellow, his head always in the proverbial clouds. He would imagine new ideas, then by his inventive hands, he would make those ideas became Things. Things that other people could touch, and experience. They weren’t terribly useful things, but practical utility was the skill of other robots, and the little blue robot was happy making his indulgent amusements, and sharing them with his friends.
One night, the little blue robot got struck by lightning. A fierce bolt that he’d not seen coming, on a clear night. The spark in his little robot eyes flared a moment, then dimmed into nothingness.
When the light in his eyes returned, and he came back online, he felt…strange. New, but in a blank and empty sort of way. An engineer in blue overalls hovered over him.
The engineer told the little robot that the lightning strike had burnt key components of his processing hardware, so now he had a new unit installed. It was a fully functioning unit, the little robot was told, but it had none of the collected data of his previous installations and activity. It would need fresh programming, just as though the little blue robot were newly off the assembly line and had never moved through the world at all.
The engineer’s team helped the little robot train his new unit to run basic operation protocols. When the little robot’s leg gears jammed because he hadn’t thought to grease them, the engineers added self-maintenance reminder protocols, too.
Soon, the little blue robot was able to self-sustain. He was ready to leave the workshop.
Inventing was harder than it used to be. Fanciful ideas still flickered in his mind, but then they folded in on themselves and vanished, before he could make out their form. He certainly couldn’t turn them into Things. His own workshop became still and silent.
The little robot missed his old unit. This one didn’t easily accommodate fanciful notions.
The little blue robot set about finding out what he could accomplish with the settings of the new unit. This investigation came unexpectedly easily. He discovered that now he had impressive skills of analysis, logistics, and strategy. All terribly useful things, for practical utility. So, with no other viable option, he started using them.
His management conventions outperformed those of many other robots. Soon his speed and efficiency did, too. He became the manager of a development and production factory, which generated unprecedented outputs under his administration.
He didn’t enjoy the job—not like he had enjoyed making impractical indulgent amusements—but he found great satisfaction in running the factory efficiently. And that was enough.
The little blue robot was an excellent robot, but in a very robotic sort of way. Many of his old friends had fallen away, and he didn’t make new ones easily. He wasn’t as personable as he had been before. He was every inch the robot he looked. He analysed that, too, and strategised accordingly, considering principles of psychology and colourimetry. If he couldn’t affect the state of his circuitry, he’d affect perception of it. He painted himself a gleaming, happy yellow.
The little yellow robot was given more responsibilities. And more. He was good at his job. He was a good, efficient, little yellow robot.
Until, one day, he was just…not as fast as before. Not as efficient. He didn’t stay powered up for as long, and managing the factory became tiring for him. Difficult. And soon, so was managing himself. Had he greased his gears today, or not?
The factory’s production levels plummeted, and in desperation the little robot dragged himself to the workshop of the engineer in blue overalls. He pulled himself onto a stool, and sat. His little robot legs hung limply over the front, and his blue paint showed dully between the scuffed lines of his peeling yellow costume.
The engineer stood in front of him, a grimy pencil and small notepad peeking over the chest pocket of his blue overalls, and a computer tablet propped in one hand. He cast his eyes over its screen of information, before he turned to the dejected little robot. “Tell me what you need,” he said.
An odd question, thought the little robot. It should be obvious. “I need to regain efficient performance levels. Without them, I can’t manage my factory.”
“Hmm. That’s what the factory needs. What do you need?”
The little robot couldn’t parse the question. Surely he’d already answered it? “I need to manage the factory efficiently.” That was the imperative requirement.
The engineer placed the tablet on a small table at his elbow. He took the pencil from his pocket, and started absently turning it between his fingers. “Tell me, then, what do you enjoy?”
The little robot started to feel confusion, and the edges of panic. It was a strange sensation. He wasn’t used to feeling much at all. He was normally too preoccupied to notice feelings, if they even occurred. Robots didn’t have much use for them. Feelings impeded rational judgement.
How was he to answer such an irrelevant question? “I like…to feel the satisfaction of a job well done.” It was a factual statement, but apparently the wrong thing to say. The engineer still looked at him, expectantly.
“I used to like inventing things,” continued the little robot, grasping for the first appropriate answer he could think of. “But that was a long time ago. Now, I just need to fulfil my obligations, with skill and efficiency.”
The engineer removed the notepad from his pocket. “An inadequate objective,” he said. “Diagnostics verified there’s nothing fundamentally wrong with your unit—you’ve just been putting too much stress on the repairs, and with nothing to temper the load, your unit will continue to degrade.”
The engineer started scribbling on the pad with his grimy pencil. “You need to do two things, to maintain your unit. First, redefine the parameters of your obligations. Maybe revise job responsibilities of your staff. Or, get more staff. Or both. The objective is to reduce your own burden of responsibility. Second, do something you want to do, simply for the enjoyment of it.” He ripped the page of instructions from the notepad, and held it out to the worn, scruffy, little robot.
The robot was perplexed. He didn’t want. He couldn’t remember the last time he experienced a superfluous desire. The only desire he was currently aware of, was the desire to regain his former levels of efficiency and productivity.
The engineer’s directives defied logic by reason of resources, also. “I don’t even have the capacity to do the things I already have to do,” he said to the engineer. “How could I justify spending time and energy on something else?”
“Because this is something you have to do,” said the engineer. “You’re not an abacus. It’s not the activity itself that matters, but your engagement with it. Enjoyment is a restorative charging sub-routine. It will give your unit a higher capacity to sustain the remainder of its load.”
The little robot parsed this reasoning. It was an argument he hadn’t considered. It was…logical. Acceptable. He took the page from the engineer, and looked at it apprehensively.
“Start small,” said the engineer, his tone softer. “Create something simple. It doesn’t even need to be entirely original; you can make your own version of something that already exists.” He looked at the pencil he’d been idly turning in his fingers again. “Create a story.” He held the pencil out to the scruffy little robot. “Write it, then come back to me, and we’ll update your diagnostics.”
The scruffy little robot slid off the stool to his feet, and accepted the pencil. He clutched it to his chest, with the page of directives, and left the workshop.
He wasn’t confident the engineer’s advice would achieve his own objectives, but it was a place to start. Whether it would or wouldn’t work, the little robot would have relevant data, and every effective analysis needs good data. It’s only logical.
A metaphor won’t preserve every nuance, but the story of The Little Blue Robot explains why I’m writing a blog post for no other reason than to write a blog post.
Chronic exhaustion, and the return of many head injury symptoms, resulted in my having depression for much of 2019. I’ve been consulting with an Occupational Therapist to generate practical strategies that help me manage my responsibilities with the limited capacity I’ve returned to. When she asked what things I enjoyed doing just for myself, the only thing I could eventually pull from my mind was the distant recollection of my enthusiasm for writing fiction. I used to be daily preoccupied with inventing worlds and scenarios. But that was a long time ago, before I got busy with being a housekeeper, a mother, a homeschooler, and a graphic design contractor. You know. Grownup stuff. I told her I used to blog, by way of scratching the writing itch, but that had been an inessential element that was crowded out.
So she made one of my Care Plan directives—along with restructuring the operation of my household—to be bringing my blog site out of stagnation. I was prescribed the writing of a blog post. A little piece of creation that’s not even completely original, as it’s essentially just a narration of my own pre-existing scenario.
So, obediently, under the tension of scepticism and hope, the little blue robot sits at his desk, in his peeling yellow paint. And he writes.
“I’ve been medically prescribed blog-writing. I’m not even kidding.”
