here today

 

my cube

 I've been getting soft.  Last week I actually heard myself saying that work isn't too bad.  That this isn't such a bad job.**  Granted, that was to my mother.  My mother, who, once I'd landed a job with actual benefits, listed this event as one of the highlights of 2002 in her Christmas letter.  Right next to surviving skin cancer.

**ISN'T SUCH A BAD JOB?  I work at an insurance agency.  This is a terrible job.

So I printed out all of Emerson's "Self-Reliance" and stuck all 14 sheets of paper to one wall of my cube.  Then up went photos from my travels, sad shots of Lucy and the kicker, a list of screenplay contests that I hope to enter this year and this time I'll make it past the second round of at least one of them.

I don't want to get too comfy, you see.  I need Emerson shouting at me from the wall behind and me in shorts standing in the St. Lucia rain and Lu wearing a birthday hat wishing I were home writing and keeping her company.  I don't want to get too comfy because then who would I be?

Not a writer.  Not at all.

Posted by: 120pages at 14:45 | link | comments |