It’s hard for me to write about this, since I tend to supersize the trivial. For everyone else, getting work is a normal occurrence, a necessity. For me, it’s the biggest hardest deal in the universe since I want to write, not work, so I am naturally resistant against all forms of employment. I have had gigs in the past, so I know I can bash through and ride the waves, but it’s beastly. OK, so that’s the main source of my unhappiness. I won’t dwell on it. It doesn’t make for good blog meat: spoiled writer whinges about having to work for a living. But I had to dump it here, since it’s the thing most heavy on my mind.
I’ve always viewed working to stay liquid as separate from all writing endeavours, but lately the two have been sleeping together. After a difficult night renouncing all my writing as useless, I spent the next day looking for work online, and fired out applications. A few minutes later, I was hammering out words like a lesbian possessed: I started up a new ‘support blog’ (now deleted—too time-consuming), then started two new stories. It calmed me immensely and helped remind me writing is what I will always return to, regardless of my failure to rustle up a novel, an agent, whatever.
So yes, very heartwarming. Is your heart warmed? I could massage it for you. So the point is—and you really need the sick bag for this one—regardless how anxious I get looking for work or attempting to slip into society, I know the blank page will always await me when I get home from hosing down pigs or licking clean Catholics. I know that’s more heartwarming than you’re used to at this blog, but permit me this rare moment of human weakness. I’ll return to the book-bragging and aimless rants about nothing later.
Good luck, me.