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April 4, 2014

the job is merciless.

writing is your job, and this job has a night shift, and a weekend shift. it's merciless, and your boss is a tyrant. your customers are fickle, demanding. if you let them down, they will eat you alive.

i read this a few days ago.

i printed it and made notes in the margin. i read it again. i put it in my purse and forgot about it. i dug it out, all covered in bits of raisins, and read it again.

writing is your job.

it's merciless.

i'm reading this right now. it's beautiful and funny and full of rich moments like this.

for me writing is about control. or, more accurately, loss of control. maybe you are a writer, and you agree because writing for you feels more like walking on the beach or getting a massage. well, maybe you and i should never meet for coffee.

this. women like this whose words i read and smile and laugh and cry to myself, often on the train, all the while thinking, i wish i could have lunch with this woman. we could talk for days.

both of these writers are true. this job, this life i want is merciless. it will never let up. and 99.99% of the time i do not feel as though sitting down to my computer is comparable to walking on the beach.

and yet, neither of these things scare me. they don't make my choice or path any easier. they just are. and it doesn't change anything. i still go to work.

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