I wished to be paid to write. And damn, today it hit me: I am being paid to write. I sit in an office and write all the damn day long about work things, and read and edit and analyze and discuss, and it's all so friggin' inteeleckshool, I come home with no words left. My blogging has deteriorated, I can't begin to summon the words needed to write about politics at all, and it's not because I don't care, it's because by the time I sit down at my own computer, I've pretty much drained the word tank for the day.
But I am getting paid to write, sort of. Except my job title doesn't reflect this, and my job description doesn't reflect this, and I'm not writing anything I find remotely interesting, okay, yeah, I do find it remotely interesting, but my heart does not go pitty-pat at the thought of explaining the shit I explain all day. And I'm really getting an attitude about People Who Don't Read the Fucking Contract When It Is Their JOB to Read It, while field guys who aren't expected to do this know every provision and can recite it chapter and verse and explain it, too.
Certain People ask me to kill brain cells I need for my old age to explain it to them in small words. I have two small words for these people: Fuck. You. I'm tired. Your email will be
But what the hell, they're paying me well, and any writing time is good writing time (I guess). I've become the queen of the crisp declarative sentence, and I can actually punctuate when I'm on the clock. Not so much at home.
Tomorrow another load of stuff leaves for charity. Saturday the computer armoire goes to consignment, and I will move this desk and all of my crap into the living room, yay, and this room will eventually become a true, dedicated craft room, with wonderful light and doors I can close to keep snoopy critters out. It will look charming when it goes on the market, won't it?