I’m a writer.
It’s always a good idea to write at an interesting time of your life. If things are going pretty swell and you’re having to dig through your memories for inspiration or to find the ‘sweet spot’ of an interesting topic, I believe that your writing ultimately suffers.
With that in mind: I quit my (relatively new) job today.
I’m a customer service guy, and I have been for the last three years or so. After having absolutely no experience talking to anybody in the general public for longer than I generally had to, I was in a call centre. And then a laser tag arena. And then in a call centre- again. That’s the one I just left.
I had this strange sensation yesterday, when I was sat in the classroom, narrowly avoiding spilling coffee on myself. I was surrounded by lovely people- people who I’d gotten to know fairly well over the last two weeks. I was being taught by a guy who had the same taste in music as I did. The company was supportive and encouraging. So why did I have the feeling that I was sinking in mud?
In a non-Biblical sense, even normal revelations are weird. I stared into space for about five minutes, and then proceeded into probably the most crushing personal sadness I’ve ever felt outside of grief. It was this realisation that, to use the most overused but appropriate turn of phrase, I was a hamster on the wheel- except, as a hamster, I’d climbed off, thought “I’ll never do that again” to myself, and then proceeded to climb back onto a separate wheel.
There’s something about being British and being cynical, and I’d say I’m the exemplification of that. I’ve always dreamed of writing, in any shape or form, as a career. As I grew up, it always seemed to be the done thing to crush your dreams before your failures disappointed you, and that’s what I did. I convinced myself that what I was doing was just a hobby and it’d be nothing more, and that’s what it ended up being.
But there’s a part of my mind, my soul, whatever- that refuses to let go of that notion that this is my forte, my primary skill. So, whenever I’m in a role where that part of me doesn’t fit, I feel strange. I feel like I’m putting my life on hold. That I’m avoiding the elephant in the room.
From this day onwards, I’m not going to have any more shame about it. I’m not going to censor myself, and I’m not offering any buts. I’m a fucking writer. I know I am because my whole being yearns to do it, all the time. I almost censored myself from saying this as well, but I’m bloody well going to. I love the sound of the keyboard as I tap in my next sentence. I love being on a roll. I love hitting that Zen moment where all I’m doing is typing and hearing the thunk of the spacebar.
I’m not giving up on myself again. I’m not giving up on my soul again.
I’m a writer.