We Work

What do you do with a blank page? It is probably the hardest thing to fill. Only be creative. Right? Words form sentences that then tell a story. Finding the story is the hardest thing. Look at all those artist out there pushing their works like it’s the easiest thing in the world. But here I am typing away. Trying to find a story to make my voice heard. My voice.
The true problem, I’m unsure what to post. These posts have become too few and far between. I think I have a topic to write about, I want to post about my anxieties, but I don’t want my job to find out since some of my anxieties come from work. Also, I don’t want to sound as if I’m complaining. In the height of a moment it never sounds amusing. Humor takes work.
But I have been writing more often lately. I leave, take a bus to the train, to find encouragement from a creative group, to write. It’s fun, relaxing, and we also do work. More than I do at home. At home it’s easy to turn on the TV or search the Internet. TV is not the only problem. I don’t feel I have a space at home. My desk is a mess, my area cramped with objects, and a hole in the ceiling from a leak that gives a draft and amplifies the noise from the apartment upstairs. Upstairs the children run with heavy feet but the screeching or crying scream of a child, the yelling discipline that only seems to make more noise, and tense situations makes it impossible to concentrate. In a moment the thought hanging on the end of a sentence is gone.
A cafe is a space of noise but it’s static. Yes, people talk, and the machines make food and drinks, but it’s not familiar. There is no WiFi so my computer is only a recording machine. WiFi hasn’t been a problem outside my home. Cafe WiFi has only seems to encouraged me to write in the past. My words come faster. The conversation may be a little too long but its just the creative energy from pears with the same struggle. We all agree to work with easy and funny conversation, overcoming our insecurity whether it’s writing in public, not having a specific topic, or struggling with a piece.
We work.

Story from a Bookstore Employee 2

A man was using a store stool to reach the top shelf of the magazine section.

Me: “Excuse me sir, but you can not use the stool.”

Customer: *Stays on stool looking at magazines* “Why?”

Me: “It’s a safety issue. You could hurt yourself”

Customer: *Still on stool.* “Well, I can’t reach the top shelf of the magazines. I don’t understand how am I to reach them.” *Starts getting really huffy*

Me: “I can get any magazine you need but you can’t be on the stool. It does say on the stool for store use only. *I point to the sign on the stool* You will need to get down.”

Customer: *Still on stool.* “You know what this is discrimination! You’re discriminating against me because I’m short!”

Customer, realizing I’m not going away, steps off the stool and he is taller than me. He was only a few inches taller than me but it was noticeable. This is also where he won’t directly look at me any longer. It took everything I had not to say to this man, “Oh, you’re taller than me!” At least he got off the stool so I tell him he can speak to a manager if he is still upset but he says no he doesn’t want a manager. I had to get away from him. He left soon after that buying the tall people magazines.

I don’t know how much longer I can work in retail.



How am I suppose to write all these stories slushing around in my head? How do I make them separately make sense? I know I can outline and organize but it is more then that. It’s that rushing and overwhelming feeling in the brain. All the ideas all trying to get out at once. The brain slows down like a few too many computer programs running. It’s the story you said you write with a friend, the query letter not coming together, some fixes for that first draft, and the new story ideas all picking this one moment. 
I hate that moment. 

Jobless Forever?

February 7, 2011
My heart hurts. I’m worried it is stress. See that, I’m worried because I’m stressed. Doesn’t that make me even more stressed?

A year ago I thought I would be better than I am now. After a writing internship for a year and a half and editorial internship for six months I thought I would land a job in a magazine, publishing house, or newspaper. I thought I would be learning the ropes, fetching coffee, and making money. I was dead wrong.

If I could get paid for sending out resumes I would be the best. It is a cruel obsession. Reading the requirements before the companies profile, wondering how many have already sent their resumes even though the job posting just went up a few hours ago. Never really being fully qualified.

People telling you, “don’t give up on your dream.” Seeing articles like, “The Best Companies to Work For” or “Top 50 Careers” only to see they have nothing close to your profession. Realizing you majored in the wrong subject. Seeing friends spend money, have fun and not care. Working in their dream jobs and the envy eating you.

I remember when I was happy. What happened to that girl?


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