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Friday, August 08, 2003

Heads are a-poppin'... 

What am I doing here?

I’m not talking in the philosophical sense, or even my presence in the ‘blogging world.

I’m talking about my job.

Don’t worry, I won’t go into the minutiae of the job. It’s really quite boring. But Wednesday, as work was kicking my ass and I was missing lunch trying to catch up from all the accumulation of work from the previous weeks due to the confluence closing the month-end and billing back-log and losing one person and training a temp and interviewing for the vacant position (how the hell did I get to be in a position to interview prospective employees? There's something very wrong with that picture - though it's kind of cool, too), I started to doze off. I blasted Garbage over my headphones and drank copious amounts of water to wake up, as I had caffeined and sugared myself out the previous day. The sheer amount of work still to be done seemed to rise up, towering over me, and I became very jittery. Every nerve in my body fired up to the point where it was either leave my desk and run to the relative privacy of the restroom or just explode like a Blipvert victim from Max Headroom. Since I’m typing this up, I think it’s fairly obvious that I chose not to explode. Instead I sat in a stall, willing the other restroom patrons to leave so that I could silently stamp my feet and release some of the nervous energy. They didn’t oblige, but I still managed let go of some of the nerves by quietly flailing my arms in the confines of my stall.

(What? Doesn’t everyone do that? Just me then. Huh.)

Finally, at some point, I was able to focus on the tasks at hand and plow through the piles of paper, managing, with much help from others, to finish the work by 5pm, as requested by my very patient and long-suffering boss.

While that is an extreme example (I don’t feel like that every day, thank heavens), I’m so desperately bored at my desk, despite the volume of work, that I really don’t work as hard as I could or should. My attention wanders, I hop on the internet (just enough to check my e-mail or read a quick journal, I promise myself) or I compose a ‘blog entry. Next thing I know, I’ve wasted far more time than I should.

Each morning I tell myself, I’ll get into work on time, I’ll work harder. I’ll be an incredible worker. And I end up rarely getting to my cubicle on time and, despite my best efforts, I become a horrid worker again. I’ve managed to coast for a long time, but my slothful ways are starting to catch up to me and, if I’m not careful, they could explode in my face.

So I wonder, what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just buckle down? Why is nearly every day a struggle? Other people are more than capable of plowing through the day, why can’t I? Why the fuck can’t I make money at something that doesn’t bore me to tears? Why am I here?

Wednesday, in the midst of my near-explosion, my oldest and dearest friend, J., called me. She rarely calls me at work, since she has no time to talk during her workday. But she had a question she just had to ask me. She read the LAPC article that I referred to on Monday and she needed an answer from me: why don’t I write more? I told her that I have been writing more, what with the writing group and this ‘blog, it’s just that I don’t submit my writing very often.

“Then why don’t you submit more? You should be getting paid for your writing.”

I’ve gotten some great feedback on my article, which is wonderful and makes me feel all glowy, but some people, both friends and strangers, are asking the same question – why am I not getting paid for my writing?

There it is.

That’s what I should be doing.

I think I’m scared. I always wonder whether I’m as good as I think I am. I’m also pretty good at the procrastinating. And I have submitted stories that I think are good, but that are rejected, so I start to wonder, even though I know many famous, published, excellent authors were rejected multiple times. Maybe I’m just not that good.

But I’ve gotten better. I can see that my writing has improved immeasurably in just the last year. I feel more confident about putting pen to paper and coming up with something that, not only doesn’t totally stink, but is pretty readable.

Even better, my inspirations are coming far more fast and furious than they have in a long time. There are so many times during the day I just want to stop what I’m doing and write a few paragraphs, an essay, maybe a short story, before I lose the inspiration. But work gets in the way and I have to just do the job. And the inspiration floats away. I could write on the bus, but that’s very difficult (I’ve tried), so I think, I’ll write when I get home. But then I’m not home until nearly 11pm and I’m just too tired to think. And another day starts.

But maybe, just maybe, I can commit to ten, twenty minutes a night. Nothing much, just enough to keep the writing muscle toned. I just have to try to make it through the work day, using that time at the end of the day as something to look forward to, to get me through the boring billing and account reconciliation and collections (yes, me doing collections – if only you knew how much irony is laden in that aspect of my job). Or I could finally pick up The Artist’s Way, of which I’ve heard so many great things. Hey, there’s an idea.

And maybe, just maybe, I can eventually say good-bye to the corporate world. Before my head explodes.

(Don’t worry, this isn’t a solicitation for reassurance. Even I'm not that needy. I just had to write what I was feeling, before the inspiration left me again.)




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Carol/Female/36-40. Lives in United States/California/Los Angeles/San Fernando Valley, speaks English. Spends 40% of daytime online. Uses a Normal (56k) connection.
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