This week, my boss learned that the corporate ass-hats had posted his job on an industry recruitment site. He freaked. I couldn’t be happier for him. He hasn’t realized yet it could be the best thing that ever happened in his life.
I know why I go to my day job. I know I fucked up. When I was young I bought into the lie. I believed that I wanted a degree and a house and kids. Yeah, you should be hearing Admiral Ackabar in your head right now. It’s a trap! I bought into the system. To be honest, I do like my house, and I want the people I love to be comfortable. But I know I could live without it, and they could too.
It happened two years ago, when I was unceremoniously terminated from my last job. I was unemployed for over a year and had a lot of time to think. At first I thought about losing my house, my dogs, and the things I had accumulated. I came to terms with it. Acceptance of the fact things will change can set you free. I also thought about how repugnant it is to sell yourself so another man can make more money. What kind of people are these that open franchises? Men who want to manage mediocre chains just to turn a dollar? They’re pathetic.
You can’t threaten me anymore. I go to my job, and I do my job as well as I care to, and no more. When I imagine being fired all I can picture is me cackling with glee. I am not a fucking hotel manager. I do not identify with this shit they have me do for ten hours a day. In fact, I’m writing this at work right now. I really hope someone at my corporate office reads this. I’m not trying to hide.
I’m a writer now. It’s in the blood. I don’t need that validated by publishers or critics. I will write what I want to write, what I need to write. If I lost my job and my computer, I would write my stories on scraps and throw them at people. I am NOT self-publishing because I don’t think I can hack it. I am NOT self-publishing because I think it’s the new thing. I’m doing this because what I write concerns only me, my gods, the people I love, and the people who read it. And not to be ungrateful, I don’t care much about the later, at least the ones that don’t get it. It’s for the ones that do get it, no matter how few. I’m not talking about quality, legitimate gripes accepted with true humility. It’s about the types of stories and the characters in them. They’re deliberately not what you’re used to, and not for the squeamish. Love them or hate them, I will keep writing.