There was a time when, on waking, I would work on a story or write a poem. When it was easy to start though never as easy as I like to think it was.
But, ultimately, easier than it is now. And I wondered why that was.
At that time in my life, I hated my job. I disliked my bosses. And I was thinking about trying to get another job and despairing. Because any references would have to come from those same people, and they were spiteful and vindictive. Couple that with my companies penchant for assigning a single title which never changed despite job duties and my lack of college degree, and I was feeling trapped.
But my writing provided an escape. I could ponder what if’s and design worlds. I could explore the things I had kept hidden and, in fact, revel in them. Moreover, I decided to no longer be private about who I was. Regarding both my sexualities: Pansexual and BDSM-Sir. And yes, I regard the latter as a sexuality. It colors everything I am, and until my realization of it, I felt as lost as I did before I came out as Pansexual.
At that point, my thinking was this. I hate this job. But, I’m excellent at it and I am constitutionally incapable of not solving a problem when it arises and my job was all about solving problems. So, my customers got good if gruff customer service. If you wanted help with an issue, I was great. If you wanted your hand held and assured that the world was a kind place, I was not your guy.
So I disassociated from the job. I was a different person at work than elsewhere and I gave zero fucks. Firing me would cripple the department and if I got fired my ESOP would pay out so I was like fuck it.
So I was both shackled and free. And that informed my writing. I hid nothing. Held nothing back. Because there was no point. The only thing I had to lose was a job I hated. Though it would also lose me the chance to hang out with my best friend. Who worked in the same department.
I can’t say enough how that daily interaction with my friend kept me as sane as I could be.
So what’s my point? What am I talking about?
Well, now its tough to write. I have parts of my life hidden, at the request of others. A boundary I have decided to honor. I have a job which I don’t have an adversarial relationship with.
In short, I have something to lose. And since they are external to myself, I have limited control over if I do lose them. And I don’t do well with a loss of control.
So I procrastinate. I put off writing because it IS in my control. And that leads to me writing in the afternoon, when I am usually tired and depressed. So there are less thoughtful pieces. Less poetry and more songs. Just less…me.
I hope writing in the morning will fix that. Some of that. But there are things I can’t fix. They’re out of my control. And I hate that.