That's a pretty common feeling with most writers, I think. The impulse to write is inextricably connected to the impulse to preserve memory and experience. Even as a young man, E. B. White knew this. That's why he took up pen and paper and typewriter at such a young age.
In the last couple years, things have changed for me quite a bit. Hell, in the last couple weeks things have changed for me quite a bit. I've had no control over these changes. Winds have simply blown into my daily life and swept some clouds away, as Michael Sims says in the passage above.
Tomorrow, I begin a new chapter in my professional life. A new job. I will be learning new procedures, new tasks, new computer programs, new people. That's a lot of "new" for a person who likes the "old." Old job, old procedures, old tasks, old computer programs, old coworkers. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I'm more than a little apprehensive about tomorrow. In fact, the thought of walking into that office in the morning makes me a little nauseous.
I have to remind myself that it's just a job. A way to pay the bills, keep a roof overhead, food in our bellies, and a health insurance card in my wallet. That's all. I can't invest myself in what I'm going to be doing. I did that with my last medical office job, and, in the end, it really didn't make a difference. I will do what I need to do to keep this new position. Perform to the best of my abilities. Then, I will come home and focus on what's really important--my family. And I won't think about that new job again until I punch the time clock the following morning.
Working is a way to live. Living isn't a way to work.
That's Saint Marty's mantra for tomorrow.
|The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind|