Thursday, April 22, 2021

I'm too old for angst, y'know?

 I hate my job.

Let me qualify that--the job is OK and, in this economy, I should be grateful to have steady employment. TBH, the work isn't demanding but stultifyingly dull. At the end of the (work) day, I have plenty of intellectual and creative capital to sit down and write. Or query agents/editors/publishers, a labor that has resulted in numerous rejections. My day job doesn't interfere with my unpaid second job, so that's cool.

It's the soulless corporation I work for that I hate. "Office Space" writ large and most of you know the lament--incompetence at the top rewarded while front-line workers bear the brunt of that fuckery--so it seems pointless to indulge that trope. But the struggle of signing onto work every morning, to seethe at the masturbatory emails polluting my inbox, is daily degradation.

Query and wait. It will be so satisfying when that offer comes and I can walk away from serving self-aggrandizing dipshits. 

My novel is written, a beast at 194,000 words. To market it, I split it into two parts. I'm still line editing and workshopping but it's a complete manuscript. 

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