I had to leave work early today, it was an absolute necessity. I felt as if I was crawling out of my skin and I had to escape that place. After 3 years and 6 times being passed up for promotion I have little tolerance and no desire to be there. I left early, but I'll have to go back tomorrow and the next day, on and on into the foreseeable future.
The moment I set foot into that building each weekday, a wave of melancholy and despair sweeps over me and lingers there pressing ever so gently onto me, not letting me forget it is there. Sometimes I can shake it off for a while, but it never goes away for very long. I try not to bring it home with me, but often times it skulks around hours after I myself have left the place which brings it out.
All of this got me really thinking and trying to examine when I was happiest with work and like most things, it came to me while I was showering.
Years ago I wrote a book and it was published through a company that was little more than a joke. They accept nearly all submissions and have no real editors (as is apparent by how ridden with typos and errors my book is) and you don't really make any money, for the most part this publishing company takes advantage of stupid people, but I knew all this going in. It wasn't about money or fame or how well edited or received my book was, it was solely and completely something I did to for myself.
I needed to write it, I needed to get it published and I needed to see my work, my labor and the world I created physically in my hands. I didn't care how it happened, I just needed to prove to myself that I could do it and after I finished writing it, the hard part was over. It didn't cost me anything to get it published and I have made a small amount from it, but none of that mattered, I was proud and happy that I did it even though I knew it wasn't really anything special. Everyone else seemed to think it was, but I knew better but I was still proud, still happy.
Thinking back to when I writing that book I remember constantly being immersed in it. Getting excited every time I got to talk with the few people that knew about it. People tell me I used to light up and get so happy whenever I started to talk about what I was going to write next and looking back, I believe them. During that whole writing process though I did have a job and it wasn't any more fulfilling than the one I currently despair at. It didn't matter though because my mind instead of wandering off to bad places while bored and dissatisfied with my job, I simply lost myself in the next chapter or where the story was going next.
My real job wasn't so bad when my mind was immersed in a different world, a place I created and sculpted and I don't recall ever being happier while working.
I guess that's my solution now, my survival method, I am going to finish another book. This time however, the goal is much higher. I've already proven to myself that I can do it, now it is time to try and start doing it for a living.
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