It hasn't even occurred to me to sign in to my journal in, I couldn't even say. I write for my full-time job, more accurately stated as, I create a very limited about of content in a very corporate setting. We do really not-so-special stuff like "leveraging existing content" and answering to a long list of internal clients, none of whom will ever be happy without getting the last word. But I've stayed here for nearly two years, marking more stability in my workplace than I have ever had before. Now why would I do this? Well, at some point the flexibility and freedom this job afforded me became as important to me as the work itself was meaningless. The Man gives you a Macbook; you can work from home; you have switched management so often that your new manager has no idea who you are, and doesn't want to. Rewarding, no. Yet I used this as a prime opportunity to grow my freelance business because I had more elasticity in my 9-5 than many are able to dream about.
But the freelancing is not quite right, either. I firmly believe that, when things are meant to be, there's a click. Something that resonates deeply as being right as rain. With the freelance, I have a handful of clients, some larger than others. In today's business landscape, there are writers out there willing to do the work for next to nothing. I'll say that I'm grateful that I've had the experiences - adding to my portfolio, learning new things, and having conversations with clients all across the country. The extra income allowed me to put 20 percent down on our house - all in all - everything had a place and time. Now I'm 30 years old, and I'm trying to figure out what I'm really passionate about. Not doing it for the money or any other reason than because I want to... does that exist?
This journal spanned a very hectic time in my life, a time when I was grateful for any entry-level opening into the copywriter realm. Now I am about Mid-Level position, and the manufacturing of words has become forced and mechanical. It's terrible to see something you once enjoyed become a hassle and headache. I have a colleague/friend that I worked with at the paper who has published his first novel and is going on a book tour. Am I jealous? Worse, envious? I don't think so, as he truly deserves it, and I've been deeply committed to my own career albeit in a different direction. Or, was this what I wanted for me? Writing a book would be tough because I don't dream up sci-fi sequences and elaborate plots with wizards and witches. More importantly, my instinct is to create a memoir-style fiction, but I find that creative writing to be abundantly self-serving and narcissistic. Anyone on here may remember I've come through some rocky times - my teenage years being a nightmare oblivion that pretty much left my wonderful friends from that time in shell-shock, subconsciously keeping distance from me and that drama ever since. Many who, in fact, have access to this entry.
But I digress. The point is that, no I have not talked to my parents in several years now and yes I moved from one city to the next, pressing the reset button and searching for meaning and coming of age and making it absolutely as difficult as possible. All the while, I had a platonic-marriage friendship because I was not coming to grips with my sexuality, and I had a nightmare pet that I was just unwilling to get rid of until she literally ate her way out of my doorframe and threw herself on the train tracks. Wow, breaks my hard to even go back down that splintered staircase of memories. And I'm not there anymore! I have come into my own! Most of my problems, on most days of the week, month, and year are luxury. I have moved up Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, in the sense that I am no longer concentrating on mere survival. I'm searching for deep fulfillment and wanting to thrive in every aspect of my life. I am in a healthy, loving, long-term relationship with the woman I now own a home with - and we have a bright future together including my first trip overseas happening this summer. Oh man, I can't wait! I have so much to be grateful for. Any work that I do on myself is about improving my attitude and being the best version of me. My life is not in some stagnated state where I am deluding myself anymore.
So I write because I'm in a crisis about what I'm doing with the writing. I write because I want to move forward in a way that serves me well, and I am looking for some sort of sign that maybe - just maybe - all the small incremental sums of money I'm making are not worth the fact that I work all the time. Maybe I shouldn't be picking up every scrap and sweating to earn each amount because, wait, what am I working so hard for? Why am I writing copy in the middle of the night for this freelance assignment? I have the house and a regular paycheck and it's all so robotic and just disciplined doing. DO I stop and do what I want? Do I have the luxury of saying - no - I don't want to do this to earn a few bucks. My time is worth more than that! It feels incredibly strange to do that. It feels completely against my impulse to keep going, doing, earning. But yet, project by project time is passing by and it's not impassioned and I'm sure that I'm selling myself short. Selling out. So this is something I am going to think about (as I'm already worried about the work piling up that I should be tapping out right about now). Maybe if I put out into the Universe what the dissatisfaction is, I can help myself ask my way to the answers. I hope.
So this is 30. What do I really want now? Because the idea of sitting back and writing stuff I don't want to 24/7 means that my hobby is making money (again, it's strictly a little bit here, a little bit there). That can't be right at all.
|comments: Leave a comment|