There is actually things that I like about my office job. I like the regular pay cheque it provides, and I love that the pay cheque puts a dent in my mortgage. I like all my co-workers, who are incredibly delightful human beings that make me laugh and smile. I like that my boss is laid back and keeps his taskmaster whip deeply buried in the closet. I like getting to know some of the patients and building a (superficial) relationship with the regulars. You could say that for the most part, I like my job.
Except. . .
There is the whole problem of the job gradually sucking away my soul. It doesn't ask or even warn me, it just sticks that straw into my body and start slurping away. The longer I stay here, the less of a soul I'll have left. This job drains me, and not just because of the angry patients or the hours of dull scanning, but rather due to it not being what I am meant for. It isn't what fullfills me or inspires me or challenges me (in an uplifting way).
I came home last night completely drained and exhuasted. After cooking dinner (okay fine -- after boiling up frozen perogies, then frying them with onions and garlic -- admittedly not Master Chef material), I felt sapped of any form of energy or desire to do much. This isn't a good thing, because it meant not only a lack of blogging but I didn't do any work towards furthering my writing business (which I do by writing things). I ended up crawling into bed shortly after 10 (very early for me) and drifting off to the land of sweet sleep. Which is fine and danndy because sleep is nice, but I really don't like going a whole day without any form of writing.
If I don't write for a few days, I start becoming a very irritable and frustrating person to be around. Just ask my lovely wife, who has had to suffer through a few of my cranky fits. Writing is my emotional release and the way I often find my energy. You could almost say, it is the way I start gaining back a piece of my soul. And you know what, I will say that. I wil admit that not all writing is soul rejuvenating. On Tuesday, I spent the entire day writing and sending off query letters for possible business, and that is far from thrilling work. There is work I've done that is nothing more than a pay cheque, and has almost no other intrinsic value. But it's still writing and that is the thing I believe I am meant to do.
Of course, many of the greatest writers of all time had to work a full time job on top of their writing. I realize, if I am ever in a place where writing is a full time career, I will be in a very blessed and envious position. It would be better than winning the lottery, if I was writing fiction as a living. It is a rare place to be in, and most of the 'household' names in writing never were able to reach such a place. This doesn't mean I am not continuing to aim for this goal (or at least to grow my full time writing busines that will include all sorts of writing) and do all the work to get me to that place. It is a reminder that many of the classic works came from artists that had to endure the soul sucking jobs. They did endure it, and they still produced wonderful works.
The hard truth is, writers write. That is it. It isn't writers write when they feel like it. Or writers write when they have time. Or writers write when inspiration jumps in their lap. Or writers write when they can afford to have writing as a full time job, Nope. They just write. The only way to ever get even a shot at being published or to be able to turn writing into a career or to just have a story to be read, is to write. Even when work slowly sucks your soul from your battered body.
So, that's my week, how was yours?