I’m beginning to understand how a job can take over a person’s sense of self — how people come to define themselves by jobs they don’t necessarily have any sort of passion for.
Being useful and needed is a fantastic feeling. I’ve never had that in a day job before.
My first week, the woman I was hired to replace warned me about boredom, about days and days of nothing much to do. Apparently, we’re not working the same job. The pace is frantic as we have one deadline after another, and I’m learning as fast as I can.
That’s kind of awesome.
But it’s disturbing how easy it would be to become the job. This is me, so it wouldn’t last, but the danger is there.
On the other hand, I have reached that point in my current novel draft where I flag and start to doubt I’ll ever reach the end. I just spent seven days on two pages.
Frustrating, to say the least, so it’s no wonder a part of me is edging towards running away to something easier. Ugh. I want something to show for my time and effort, and I want it now, damn it.
Why does writing take so long? Or, rather, why am I so slow?
Anyway, my point is that the not-so-new job is going better than I ever expected. Writing, much as I love it and the story I’m working on, is teeth grindingly slow, and I just want to be done so I can start the next project.