Do you hate your job?

Don't raise your hand if you hate your job ... please!

I've been thinking a lot lately about how much negativity is spread by everyone who regularly complains about how much they hate their jobs to anyone who will listen. And I've started to think that maybe it's because I just don't understand that concept (which could be caused by my fortunate upbringing by parents who believed you should do what fulfills you and had parents who also believed this ... plus my continued exposure to a lot of people who espoused these same "dream hard" values throughout my life). Why do people stay in jobs that become a source of daily pain and frustration? Why do they believe that whenever they are not as work is the only time they can really be themselves and find peace and contentment? You can call me lucky, but I don't see finding yourself in a job you love as having anything to do with luck. And doing what you love is not an anomaly. It has to do with strength ... and believing in the truth:  We have choices.

Sometimes we don't like our choices. God knows, I've been in plenty of situations where every choice was terrible, but there were still options. None of us are ever truly out of control in our own lives. We sometimes just don't believe in our own strength to go the way that might seem to be impossible now, but typically has life-changing payoffs.

When did we become so afraid of risk? And when did we start to think it was the norm that we should be miserable, hate our lives ... and tell everyone on the planet about it, spreading that toxicity everywhere we go? You'd think that in a world that continues to open up so widely for all of us, we'd have more hope, joy ... and less fear. I know there are atrocities in the world. I know there are annoying people (and trust me, I love to tell stories about the many dark comedies of their errors and have fallen victim to them as much as anyone else has). And I know sometimes you have to bide your time at a job that is less than ideal while you work towards dreamier circumstances. But when did we become endlessly-complaining victims of our own circumstances?

I made the difficult choice a long time ago to do what I love. And a lot of the time it's been a back-breaking challenge that has left some significant emotional carnage. But when I stop to think about settling for less than what I was born to do, I know that I will always ultimately refuse.

I stopped entertaining humorless and victimized complaints from people who will not change their circumstances. If you're unhappy, you can always do something about it. If you're in a job you hate, at least have the decency to spend some time figuring out what really fuels you ... then go towards that light with everything you have. And if you're unwilling to make a choice to better your situation, shut up and take it like a man or woman, and please also take responsibility for the fact that ultimately, it is always you who drives your own bus. It's pretty simple.

I'm an extreme realist, so do not let any of this be misinterpreted as blowhard sunshine. I'm just urging everyone to stop the negative dialogue and rediscover some spark. It's not helping anyone if you have no reason for being here.

Belated Thanksgiving Gratitude

Although the past few weeks (really, the past many years) have been full of personal challenges and great failures for me, they have also been full of some triumphs. Still, it's becoming difficult for me to envision a time when there's less struggle, as that has become the norm rather than a short-lived exception.

That being said, I've been thinking, annoyedly, about something for a few weeks now:  I am incredibly thankful for my creative life and the community of incredibly imaginative people that have always gathered around me. In my personal and professional travels, I have met a lot of people who are an affront to creatives everywhere, taking advantage of them financially as well as taking advantage of their dreams and believing them to be "silly" and misguided in their principles (mostly because they do not understand what it means to create something beautiful, nor do they value what creative products add to the world, or what the world would really look like without them). I recently even met someone unpleasant who doesn't like music (he admitted he only downloads music in the Billboard Top 10, and only so other people think he is "normal") and believes that television, film, theatre and other cultural phenomenon is actually propaganda for a specific liberal political and philosophical agenda and conspiracy. 

Understandably, my mind was blown. His existence is an attack on everything I hold dear and everything that has supported me emotionally and financially my entire life and entirely shaped the person I am.

Ultimately, I am thankful that these people will never have the ability to shape our world. And there are people who would probably disagree with me, but they clearly just haven't looked at history and what creates lovely revolutions, magnificent changes of heart, new inventions and the change and progress that keeps the world interesting.

Note to the unbelievers:  Imagination always wins in the end.

Political Rant One

And now, a rare and sarcastic political rant. Oh goodie!

Now that a week has passed since Sandy hit, it seems we (those of us that have not had our homes torn away from us) can all go back to complaining about non-storm-related things on Facebook again. And after tomorrow, we can stop complaining about the potential problems that will ensue if [insert name of candidate here] gets elected and start complaining again about what he probably will not do while in office. 

aunt sandy is coming for a visit ...

I'll admit it:  I love hurricane names. I especially love when the worst ones are given pleasant names. "Irene" at least sounds like the bitchy old lady next door who tries to poison your dog when it won't stop barking. But "Sandy" sounds like a friendly aunt who comes to visit a few times per year and always gifts you the toys your parents can't afford for Christmas.

I plan to get a lot of work done today. I didn't think I would, but I got the itch to type when I opened up my computer. Let's hope the hurricane produces a maelstrom of ideas -- especially the ones I need to finish my website (which is launching, let's hope, on Friday this week ... after SIX LONG YEARS)! At this point, like any hurricane worth its salt, this very unread blog might die ... or at least change direction.

tiny excerpts

Because I can't think of anything interesting to write about (save maybe the fact that an entire night spent awake watching TV with a favorite on Friday was confusingly punctuated by a Dusty Rhodes documentary at 9 a.m. -- none of which was interesting), I will post a tiny excerpt from a very rough essay book chapter I'm working on currently (and I hope to finish this at some point this week, along with at least one other thing):

"My bad bike karma began innocuously, with some unimpressive tumbles on breezy, traffic-free residential side streets. My mom, dad and sister took family bike rides on crisp spring and hot summer weekends to a semi-secret meadow of honeysuckles and lilacs, even though everyone in my family was desperately allergic. The blossoms stared at us all in a row, the entrance to a long field that seemed untouched despite being the dividing border between two neighborhoods. Sometimes we would walk our bikes across the field, entering into the alternate universe of the houses just behind ours, which we could usually only glimpse through the narrow slats of our backyard fence. (Years later, my mother would break down and excitedly plant a lilac bush in our very own backyard. I imagine the ashes of my childhood shaggy dog, Cindy, are still buried there, unbeknownst to new owners.) On the way back or to the lilacs, I would sometimes end up laid out on the hood of a car or thrown into a cozy patch of grass at the request of my awkwardly-pedaling limbs."

 

the continuation of inspiration

Today, my drive to do things continues. I have been trying to continue the precious feeling of non-rushed calm that I tried to cultivate while I was in Chicago for almost a month from mid-September - mid-October. I actually find I get less done when I worry about some of the meaningless details about career advancement and general accomplishment -- like how many pages or notes of creative content I should be writing in a day, when the last minute I can finish a transcription is before I'm deemed lazy, when I need to start writing a bio for someone. I sit and spin my wheels for days, feeling guilty about watching TV or anything I do that is not directly contributing to my output.

No more.

Why don't I just wake up and write something ... anything? The worst that can happen is something semi brilliant.

In other news, I want, I want, I want ...

Also, I need to finish my bio and other website content.

And finally, my sister turns 40 today, and I feel this has to be impossible. 

I suffer therefore I write ... therefore, am I?

This cliche question brought to you by my realization (and I know all writers realize this at some point) that sometimes the only time I can create poignant/heartbreaking/affecting writing is when I am miserable. Actually, it's not really when I am miserable that I can create, rather when my heart, mind and soul (and bank account) are in limbo. This state of being is pretty much the definition of existential misery.

I hate waiting. And I have been doing it my whole life ... or at least for the past 11-12 years.

If I am basically satisfied with my life, will I stop noticing interesting things in the world and stop being capable of stringing words together that mean anything?

When I feel less of myself, I seek to find more of it in language. When I feel more myself, I feel no need to reaffirm my connection to the planet through words.

It's stupid, simple and complicated, all at the same time.

I am currently pushing to get my website up so I can feel that I have accomplished something rather than am just keeping myself alive. I also need to get back on the "approaching agents" horse. I went through a bit of a freshly-rejected period (after getting some rejections, none of which implicated I was anything but a fantastic writer) where I didn't want to do anything with that part of my life.

Then again, emptiness is hard to fill with more emptiness.