April 7: Favorite Job, Ghost Faculty, New Cartoon

On this Second Sunday of Easter, I'm going to write about my favorite place to work.  In fact, when I'm working here, it doesn't even feel like work.  It's not stressful or burdensome.  I like all of my coworkers.  Well, almost all of them.  And I get to do what I love:  talk about writing and books and plays and movies and poetry.

I'm talking about the teaching at the university.  Since I started studying for my Master's in Fiction Writing, I've been teaching college-level English courses.  Composition, literature, creative writing, technical writing, and movies.  That means I've been at it for over twenty years.

Last Wednesday, I met some of my university friends at a local micro-brewery for drinks and dinner.  They were going to a poetry reading afterward.  I sat there, listening to them talk about their careers.  Some of them had new books being published.  Some of them were going to some kind of conference this weekend in one of the Carolinas, I believe.  And some of them were raving about former students who were publishing books and starting doctoral programs.

I am out of this loop.  I don't teach full-time, so my forays into the English Department realm are limited to guerrilla-style pop-ins.  After I'm done teaching, I swing through on my way home to check out my mailbox.  I don't serve on any committees.  I usually can't attend department meetings.  I don't advise any undergraduates.  I'm one of those ghost faculty members.  An adjunct.

I have another job, one that provides me with the health insurance and benefits that the university doesn't.  That job eats up the majority of my time.  Out of bed at 4 a.m.  At the office by 5 a.m.  Work and work.  Teach at the end of the day.  Home by 5:30 or 6 p.m., if I'm lucky.  This other job is necessary.  It's not one of my favorite things.

When I was having a drink with my university friends last Wednesday, one of them started complaining about how many classes he'd been assigned to teach.  Four sections of Mythology for next fall.  A summer class in Spiritual Writing.  "Oh, my God," someone said, "did you ask for overload classes?"  Everyone looked at him with pity.

I sat there thinking, "You're living my dream, buddy.  You're living my dream."

Saint Marty is a little jealous, but he'll get over it.  He has to.  He has to get up for work tomorrow morning at 4 a.m.  He doesn't have time for jealousy.

Confessions of Saint Marty