I got a phone call yesterday. And a job offer. I was offered an old job back. The job I had before I decided I was good enough to write full time. The job that left me exhausted and stressed out at the end of each day. But I did what I do best. I went in with my happy face and I made shit happen. Every day consisted of me wearing numerous hats. I was a marketer. I was a salesperson. I was a stone specialist. I was an interior designer. I was a computer whiz. I was customer service rep. I was a cashier. I was a secretary. I was a scheduler. I was a personal assistant. I was a supervisor. And I was good at it.
But not everybody knows how to treat people and I was mistreated and underappreciated, which was fine, because I was paid well enough to give zero fucks. Sometimes I miss the job. But not really. I miss the interaction with people on a daily basis because I don’t get that now. I sit in my “office” all day, which is 3 feet from my bed and I write. I talk to a few people sporadically if they call me and I talk to myself (and my dogs) a lot. The pay is not near as good as it was when I had that job. And honestly, if I was working doing any other thing besides writing, I would definitely throw caution to the wind and give it one more try because what am I if not the definition of insane? I can do the same thing over and over again an infinite number of times and expect a different result each and every time, because, despite everything that has happened in my life and how dirty people have been to me, I still believe in people. I still give them the benefit of the doubt. I still want them to be the best versions of themselves they can be.
But in this particular case, although it was tempting for about 5.5 seconds, I just can’t find peace within my soul when I think about going back to my old schedule, my old stress, my old miserable self.
Every day I wake up and I feel alive. I used to have a quote written on a little chalkboard painted spot on my wall. It said, “Write or Die.” I put it there to remind me that my one true love is and always has been words. I don’t care if it’s a school note or a text message. I don’t care if it’s a love letter or a blog. I put as much thought and effort into all of them the same. Obviously, the amount of time varies, but the importance of each stays the same.
I’m sure there’s some mental illness associated with an unnatural love for words. It’s probably called “dictionarosis” or something like that. And described on WebMD as “the desire to be able to physically hold on to words and love them and hug them even though they are not actually tangible items.”
I’ve since painted over the “Write or Die” on my wall. It’s now a soothing lavender color and my bookshelf is propped up in front of the space where it used to be. I opened my EDGY tab today. If you don’t know what that is, it’s a Google Chrome extension. You download it to your pc (or mac) and every time you open a new tab, it gives you these little motivational snippets. Sometimes when I need extra motivation, I just sit at my computer and open and close tabs for five or ten (or thirty) minutes. The first one I opened today said, “If you’re not dreaming, you’re dying.” Thank you, Dan Waldschmidt, for the awesome quote and the EDGY Tab.
To me, that quote pretty much said the same thing as “Write or Die.” Because I feel like, if I’m not writing, I will die.
I know that’s dramatic. Sue me. When I’m not writing and I’m not being productive, I am moody and not at all fun to be around. Which is like dying a slow death instead of a noble one like getting hit by a MAC truck while trying to save a puppy in the middle of the interstate. And who wants to die a slow death? Not this girl.
Needless to say, I picked happiness and time and peace of mind over money (because the pay would have been great). But what good is money if you don’t have any time to spend it and it takes the joy out of your life?