Of course, four days into this self-imposed exile, I was afraid I was exhibiting signs of depression. I know all is not right with me when I voluntarily do not wash my hair in five days. However, I gathered that as long as I was making my bed every morning after I awoke and was taking a daily shower and cooking for myself, I was not exhibiting symptoms of any mental illness.

I binge-watched Parks and Recreation and absolutely invested my energies in Leslie Knope's character, played by Amy Poehler, who, along with her bestie, Tina Fey, are my female comedian sheroes. I got to the end of season six and actually gasped. The show had the balls to depict a woman who truly had managed to have it all and was neither clinically insane nor lonely. Mostly, I felt energised by how Knope, who starts out as deputy director of the parks and recreation department, always managed to get things done, mainly through ethically viable, ingenious means. It was immensely gratifying to have another female role model to add to my growing television cannon.

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My break from the world was interrupted by a few assignments but was otherwise marvellously uneventful. But soon enough, I began to contemplate the vast reserves of guilt I seem to have stored within my consciousness, much of my guilt circling around the very capitalistic notion of productivity.

Every evening, as I'd watch the sun slink behind the eucalyptus tree from the window in front of my writing desk, I started to ask myself if I had done enough. Had the day been worthwhile? What had I accomplished? What tangible output did I have to show for it? Because so much of my writing is done through a series of distractions, I tend to forget by dinner time that I managed a 2,500 review plus another deadline, plus a bunch of reading, besides also cooking for myself and doing my fair share of housework. This is not to mention the days when I do not write a word and the thoughts in my brain are not transcribed at all.

As a feminist, I've read numerous scholarly articles about the emotional labour performed by women, as daughters, wives, mothers and housewives. But my predicament in this case was different. It had to do with intellectual labour. As a full-time freelance writer, my livelihood is governed almost entirely by my rate per word; therefore, my earnings are impacted directly by the volume of my output. But every piece I write, every column, review, feature or essay is the consequence of hours spent first in subconscious then distracted angst. Each time I write, I have to tell myself that whatever I am writing is not beyond me. Sometimes I feel like a conjurer, like I have to make words out of nothing, or out of nuance only, or a feeling, an intuition.

Unlike an actual labourer who earns a daily wage, at the end of my day, I know I will not have built or demolished anything. I will have nothing to show. On some days, all I will have done is procrastinated, and on those occasions, there won't be any physical manifestation of my work. Even when I do write and have my pieces published, there is never a guarantee that they are read.

Which is not to say mine is a thankless occupation. It is, however, a humbling one. Why do I continue to do it? Because it is a calling, a vocation. Because my very existence and identity are hinged on this continuing articulation of my self. My words are the sweat of my brow, the flesh of my soul.

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D'Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com

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