Monday, April 6, 2015

A Career Cock Block

I always feel as though I'm one step behind the other managers I've worked with in the last year. One thing I've noticed that always separated me from them is their complete and utter dedication to The Job. The restaurant is their career. They wake up and go to work and their complete focus is on the job and making the place a success, not just to appease the higher ups, but because it's also what they want. The success of how they run the place is also how they measure their success. 

I can never get my head around it. 

I wake up and go to work and my primary goal, which is also the goal I have in most other walks of life, is to get things done in such a way that I won't get bitched at. I prefer to be left alone and ignored, completely and utterly invisible, which makes shift managing the one of most ironic occupations I could have. My employees make a mistake, I'm the one my bosses approach about it. In order to stay invisible, I have to focus my efforts on making sure that a group of kids (who don't get paid nearly enough for they shit they put up with) do their job as though it's the most fulfilling thing in the whole wide world. 

The difficult thing about working a career that isn't what I want to do and what I love (writing!) is that I'm never 100% in it. While labor costs and employee productivity haunt the minds of my colleagues and superiors, I'm often wondering about market strategy for She Sees Metaphors and Tales of Timeless Springs (my sophomore release). While the others are trying to figure out how food prep is done to best reduce waste cost, I'm rolling character dialogue over in  my head. It's something that's always going on in the back of mind, which from what I gather, is just how writers do. It's a constant haunting from a welcomed ghost.

I call this constant haunting a career cock block. No matter how much effort I put into whatever I'm doing to pay the bills, it's never going to compare and it's never going to wind up anywhere but in a later slot on my priorities list. And that's okay with me. It's the life I want. Even if I never find myself in the position to write full time, I will keep writing and keep polishing and keep publishing because at the end of the day, it'll take me to the grave in a much happier and fulfilled state.

There is a sense of defeat in this, because I know that I will never push myself into greater careers. I tried it for a year. I wrote almost nothing and I hated every second of it. I am much happier with my current lot in life. But the risk is quite frightening. The stress and fear of it all will sometimes keep me awake at night, because being poor is really, really, fucking lame. But what can you do, except drag your ass to the desk every day or night and pull out the manuscript and hope to heaven and hell that what you're putting on paper is something that just might allow you to live your dream one day?

Jesus, I think I've had too much coffee. I'm shaking here like a man sitting in the electric chair, waiting for the first tingle of the end of his life. And I've got some more words to put down on paper and a lunch that should probably be eaten before I slip out the door and make my way to the day job, for yet another evening of ensuring that the restaurant looks pretty and is in perfect working condition so that the people who live and breath its existence can rest easy and know that their personal legacy is safe and sound. Although, in truth, I'll probably watch Mad Men and read a bit. I could use some creative nourishment before I carry on with the story at hand.

Cheers.





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