We all need to vent. We can vent in our personal poems, our journals, and over a beer with friends who are also venting about their families, jobs and the asshole at the DMV who made them fill out twenty pages of forms, sent them to the wrong window with a fotty-five minute line where they were told it was the wrong window and those were the wrong forms.
I went from the worst job in the world to one that made made me look back on the first job fondly. Instead of writing about those jobs, I wrote the novel Raising Hell which depicts hell as the workplace with Lucifer as the ultimate micromanager. Many of the events I experienced became notecards for the novel, but none were written into the book.
With time, events we want to share percolate in memory, age into a fruit far more delicious—more tragic or funnier. Why waste that material by regurgitating it for readers before you’ve had time to see how it matures?
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