Knock-Down Drag-Out

The two halves of my brain have been fighting lately.

Well, maybe "halves" isn't appropriate - it's not like the left and right hemispheres of my brain are warring with each other. I can still read and write and fake math problems with a calculator (as long as they're not more than elementary math, heh). But I do have two distinct sections of my brain devoted to work - one side for the Clark Kent job, which is a sales and marketing position, and the other for my writing career.

As you guys know, there's a lot more to a writing career than just making things up and writing 'em down - there's also blogging, which takes up a couple hours a day (it's not the posting that's the time-suck so much as reading other blogs and commenting), revising and editing, reading my writing colleagues' work and commenting/offering suggestions, and a hundred other miscellaneous tasks which I take on with joy. You feel me, don'tcha? Sure you do.

The regular-paying job is completely different - I go out on sales calls, book events, talk with clients, send emails, compile sales reports, build spreadsheets, organize mailouts, distribute fliers and coupons, set up corporate sponsorships, design ads, network with local businesses... well, you get the idea. "Sales Director" is the title, and it's a huge umbrella which a lot of different responsibilities fall under. Lately we've lost a few people at the bowling center, so I'm also pulling extra shifts and wearing a manager hat, as well.

You guys know I've been working on the novel diligently and want to have it finished by the first of May. (Which reminds me, I need to work in a status update for y'all - just gotta figure out which letter of the alphabet I can use, right, Arlee? Ha!) Since I've been working so much over the last few weeks, the forward momentum has really slowed down and it's now a struggle to produce as much as I want. I'm just so tired when I get home, I don't even want to do anything but collapse and sleep. Not even zone or watch television or anything... just sleep.

I'm frustrated. I don't have a choice about working for a living right now, and I refuse to stop writing. But the regular-paying job is sucking up my energy reserves and my headspace right now. This is why I got out of Corporate America! So I could have a low-stress job which - while it may not pay much - gives me the time and brain capacity I need to really focus on what's important to me professionally (which has absolutely nothing to do with the bowling industry).

I just want to WRITE. Sometimes I wish I could flash forward a year or two, and get past all this stress (especially the pressure I keep putting on myself to complete the WIP and stay on my timeline for going down to the SC Writers' Conference in October). I've worked every day for the last two weeks, and I'm burned out. The two parts of my brain respectively dedicated to my job and my career (two entirely different things) are fighting constantly, bickering and sniping at each other. Sooner or later they'll have a knock-down drag-out fight. It's ok, though.

I already know who's gonna win.

How about you? This was primarily a "venting" kinda post... got anything that's really frustrating you at the moment? Need to have a knock-down drag-out with yourself about something? Feel free to get it off your chest.

I'd Rather Be...

Instead of going to the Clark Kent job at 3 and staying there until closing tonight, therefore effectively killing my Saturday, I'd much rather be...

Flying a kite. Listening to the new Murder By Death album, which I just got yesterday. Grocery shopping. Doing laundry. At the beach, starting a campfire. Walking through the woods. Visiting a waterfall. Reading a Stephen King novel. Organizing my sock drawer. Cooking steak sandwiches. Having a beer (or three). Watching a movie. Playing with my cats. Talking about the difference between Star Wars and Star Trek ships, and debating which ones are more awesome. Painting. Building a bookshelf. Swimming in my parents' pool. Exploring an abandoned house. Going on a Zorb. Memorizing all fifty state fish in alphabetical order. Doing important research on leftover Easter candy. Rocketing into space to visit the space station. Cleaning out Jeff. Learning sleight of hand. Finding incredible new movie trailers to watch. Talking about which Hobbit was coolest (Samwise has my vote). Picking strawberries. Taking a nap. Climbing trees.

But most of all, I'd rather be...


WRITING.

What about you? Got something you'd rather be doing? Is your RESPONSIBILITY getting in the way of your CREATIVITY? I know how you feel, friend.

Authors and Writers

One of the more frustrating replies to the answer of "I'm a writer" (see my post on Clark Kent vs. Superman from last week), for me at least, is "Oh, me too! I just LOVE to write!" This is usually said in a gushy, hands-clasped-before-the-chest way, as if the act of writing were the equivalent of teenage puppy love (for some people, I guess it might well be).

Sigh.

I've made some business cards for myself - I can't even describe how weird it was to just type those words - to take to conventions and other gatherings, so if I meet someone I connect with I'll have a quick and easy way to help them remember my name. I deliberated on the design for a while, and decided to stick with the simple, easy layout. The thing I like best about it is the black band that goes across the middle of the card, where a definition is printed in white:

author: \ˈȯ-thər\ 1. One who originates or creates.

This is how I present myself, how I view myself, as much as I can: as one who originates or creates. Authors are nothing less than gods in their imagined universes, and they are the ones who decide the fates of the worlds (and words) they create. Authors have a calling, and are forced to answer it, lest they go insane. Authors fight for the ideas they believe in and love. They are artists, with a capital "A", and they weren't given a choice about their role in life. Most of all, authors are conduits for the energy of the universe. Sounds kooky, I know, but I believe it. Stories are found, they're discovered, they're radioed to us from some unknown source out there in the midst of all that revolving matter which makes up our reality. It's our job as artists - as authors - to keep the channels open and the equipment in as good working order as we can manage. Of course, that can be tough, as we're all alone in most of what we do, and (like Indiana Jones) we're kinda making this shit up as we go along.

Then there are writers. All authors are writers, but not all writers are authors. It's one of those square vs. rectangle things we learned back in middle-school geometry. There are some people out there who believe the ability to string words together and make a coherent thought with them proves they're a writer. They like to pass the time by doodling on notebook pages about the dark recesses of teen angst they've been caught in for years. Anyone who's suffered through a high school creative writing class knows the people I mean. In our writers' meetings, we call these the "love-glove-dove people". (Ten points if you know where this reference comes from.) Their work is painful to read, especially as the majority of them aren't willing to listen to any constructive criticism - their goal isn't so much to get their words out there to the general public as it is to have a few people listen to them and immediately commence with the ego-stroking as soon as their work's been read.

I've perfected the art of choking my frustration down and being a patient listener to those gushing people who insist they LOVE to write; after all, we all have to start somewhere. I'm trying not to be catty or a snob towards people who have a love - if a mutated, perverse one - for the trade in which I try so hard to excel. Everyone deserves a fair chance and a sympathetic ear. It's really only those people who refuse to take criticism, who insist that their terrible poetry is beyond revision and came out of their soul whole (note the ever-amusing rhyme scheme, friends), that frustrate me beyond belief. Arrogance is the death of creation, I think; or at least one of its many forms. I can't speak for anyone else, but I know my best work comes while I'm being humble and filled with gratitude for the gifts the universe has given me.

It's that balance between humility and cockiness (one who originates or creates, remember, and that act of creation offers a rush so spectacular that sometimes it's hard not to be cocky) which is hardest to define and master for me. I guess I'll be working on my footwork in that particular dance for years to come.

Clark Kent vs. Superman

I think the most likely question presented in the social song-and-dance of meeting new people is the universal "So, what do you do?"

For a long time I answered that question with reciting whatever my current job title was at whatever company I worked at. The list is extensive (and exhausting). I worked in corporate America for a little over fourteen years before getting the unceremonious boot. I procured important job names: Sales Coordinator, Customer Service Specialist, National Accounts Administrator (please note the all-impressive proper noun status). I equated "what I did" with "what I made", a sad mistake which befalls so many people working in the white-collar industry.

Now I answer the question simply: "I'm a writer." The sound of those words coming out of my mouth are enough to start the butterflies hovering in my stomach, because it's something I've wanted since I was old enough to comprehend what a writer was. And now it's the truth.

An interesting comparison, isn't it? The truth - which was there all along, just waiting for me to finally pick it up and wear it proudly for everyone to see - is much more simple than the proper-noun-status titles of corporate America, but it's so much more broadly exciting. When I tell new acquaintances my profession, I feel a mix of pride and gratitude that's overwhelming.

Like Superman, I have no choice about what I was born into. I could choose not to write, but I'd still be a writer. And believe me, being an artist fucks you up sometimes. I had to learn to roll with it or I'd've been crushed and churned up by the machinery in my head. It's an ever-changing process, one I hope I never stop learning until the day I die. I wouldn't trade it for anything. And like Superman, when I'm writing I'm invincible - troubles melt away, no one can touch me, and nothing puts a damper on my mood.

But Clark Kent is still around. I have to pay the bills, don't I? And as much as Superman flew around, as cool as he looked in that cape and matching boots, as dapper as that shining spit-curl was in the middle of his forehead, he still needed food and shelter and clothing and the other things us humans have to have to survive. (Sure, I'm belaboring the point here - Superman had his Ice Fortress provided by the nifty crystals left to him by his dead superparents, but I don't have that luxury, so indulge me with this comparison, if you don't mind.) So yeah... for now, I'm a sales director by day and a writer by night. My day job is fun; I think I've mentioned in an earlier post how it allows me the time (and more importantly, the working brainspace) I need to write my book and build my career as a dark fiction author. I bet working at the Daily Planet was fun, too.

For a while.

Two jobs, one hope

Like the majority of writers out there, I don't make *quite* enough money yet from my craft to make ends meet. (Insert good-natured yet cynical laughter here; the asterisks above are an indicator of sarcasm, friends). Hopefully that'll change one day, but right now I'm stuck having to work two jobs: the one that pays my rent, gas bill, phone bill, and other expenses... and the other, which offers payment on a much more emotionally rewarding scale: when I'm writing, I'm being paid in the totality of imagination. It's my escape, my voice, my therapist, my joy, my secret, my everything.

It's difficult to work a full-time "real world" job and then turn around and be creative. I don't produce as much as I'd like to; there are days when I can't even shift my brain into productive mode, and am lucky if I can do something as creative as cooking a simple dinner. Forget writing, forget tapping into the elemental ribbon of universal truth: I'm tired, dammit, and I want an ice cream sammich. I'm able to push myself into creative movement more and more often; after all, I understand that talent is a muscle and you must exercise it for your endeavors to grow. You must grind to shine, in other words. But that's easier said than done, more often than not.

The "real world" job I have right now involves sales, lots of sales. But it really is kind of a fun job. I have an old journal, one I left behind when I was unceremoniously booted from the poisonously safe refuge of Corporate America, cast out to drift in the vast gray sea of the lower middle class and the service industry which it so warmly embraces. I read a few entries from that journal earlier today, and now I'm filled with one of my favorite emotions, gratitude.

Gratitude and luck... I feel so very lucky to have lost my 40k a year job, and to be leading a totally different life from what I had two years ago. (Now, I bet you're wondering... is there more sarcasm in that remark? Ah, gentle reader, there were no asterisks around that statement, were there?) Yeah, it's tough. My job pays very little (a bit more than a third of what I was making in C.A., I just got my W2 for last year and it was quite the eye-opener), and I've had to implement a rigid budget to make sure bills get paid on time. And they still don't all get paid on time. Money is ridiculously tight, so much so that I applied for state benefits (EBT/food stamps), and was approved the same day I filed my paperwork. I'm not lamenting that, though. It just adds to the gratitude.

And I have another trade-off... I'm not under the backbreaking weight of constant pressure that builds and builds and builds when you're working in a cubicle farm. I'm not tied to a desk, don't have to be in the office at any specific time, and can leave to go out in the sunshine whenever I want to, provided I complete the work I have to do in the time I'm allotted. I was reading back over all those posts from when I worked in a huge office, and over and over I kept saying, "I hate it here. I hate being here. I wanna be out in the sunshine. I wanna be in a place I can have fun." More than that, the constant emotional punishment of living and working a hefty salary white-collar job ate away at my drive to write. "It's all right," I'd say to myself, "I work so hard, and I'm making good money... I'm too tired to write. I don't have time right now. I'll write later."

Well... it's later, kids.

Now I have what I need... money's tight, true. It's hard to spread myself between two ventures, yes. But I'm on the right path (the write path? heh). I'm grateful, so grateful I've been given this chance to honor the Muse. I'm so glad I've been laid low financially. "Prosperity breeds forgetfulness." Sadly, it's the truth. Right now everything makes me grateful, because times are so hard. And because of that, there's a lot of light and love in my life right now.

And hope. Never forget hope.