Blonde gave me another prompt (eye of the storm) which I started writing about and then went off course. But the theme's in there somewhere, promise.
For someone who sends cards all year round for no particular reason, I'm surprised by the amount of effort it takes to buy, write and post them for Christmas.
But this year the effort seems necessary, because this was the year things changed.
It was the year that my friends and I grew up, just a little bit, with a wink: made lifelong commitments, created human beings, chucked it all in and went abroad; broke down, broke up, and realised as a few things crashed that right: so this is how life's going to go now.
So this year, there'll be cards: and it starts with me, in bed on a Saturday morning, making a list of names.
The list surprises me, and so it should: because throughout my childhood and teens, friendships were stormy things. Never calm for long, always a battle to maintain.
They were precarious, and worrying: something that could, and often would, be messed up at any moment (usually, it seemed, by me).
Almost no one on the list comes from my school days, which at one point might have seemed odd.
But now, it seems obvious: if you go to five different schools, you'll be constantly interrupting, re-jigging; trying to squeeze between friendships and groups that were, in that classic, cliquey, school-like way, already formed.
I wish someone had told me back then, in the middle of one of the storms, that I'd make the best of my friends at university, and at parties, and at work, into my late twenties and beyond.
That when people ask how we know each other, there'll be furrowed brows and longwinded explanations, of friends-of-friends and introductions here and there.
That when they arrive, the friendships won't end up fitting a defined shape, or group, or neat number at all.
That one day I'd make friends to get really, stupidly drunk with, who'll drive me home the next morning while I'm being sick into a plastic bag, and laugh when I say "see, this is how I know you're good mates, because I'm not even ashamed".
That I'll have friends that are strong minded and friends who speak up, and friends who I can honestly say "mate, you're being a complete nightmare"; and instead of it causing a storm (and I'll never quite shake the fear that it will) they'll say "I am, I am. And that's why I love you, because you'll always let me know".
That I'll make friends whose priorities will change from nights out to nappies, and whose lives might take a different direction to mine, but one day I'll sit on my bed and write a list with their names on and feel happy.
Because my main worry when it comes to friendships now, is remembering to post their cards.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, 22 December 2015
Monday, 14 December 2015
Starting small
We decide to give each other a little prompt.
Because when life is too big, too much, too overwhelming to write about, but you know you need to write; what you need isn't a pen or a keyboard, or book, or blog, it's somewhere to start.
The subject delivered via text message is "an item that brings you joy", so I sit on the bus and I think about all the things I own, and I try to assign them a value.
First I think of the ring on my finger. Three different types of gold interlinked, and given to me by my parents on my 16th birthday.
It's not just a ring, of course: it's a comfort when rolled back and forth, a poker-tell that I'm nervous; a heart fluttering novelty when taken and worn by someone else on their little finger (and it has been, twice).
It's not just a ring, of course: it's a comfort when rolled back and forth, a poker-tell that I'm nervous; a heart fluttering novelty when taken and worn by someone else on their little finger (and it has been, twice).
Then the diaries come to mind. Altogether there are twenty, perhaps, although to be fair I've never counted.
Notebooks of different shapes and sizes filled with a script that changes, but retains some element that has been unmistakably mine since the first entry in 1991.
Occasionally, I like picking one and reading through; feeling whatever feeling it is that comes - but is it joy?
And then because I'm on the bus and thinking about diaries, and memories, inevitably I think of the thing I need to write about the most. Would diaries help? If she'd kept them, would things be different?
I begin to open tabs and Google this new idea before stopping myself, and coming back to the task at hand: the prompt. This is why we're starting small.
Because life gets in the way, because writing means processing what's happening, because sometimes you just need to write something, anything, and start there: do it, write it, no distraction.
And that's when I realise the item that brings the most amount of joy is, and always has been, a pen, a keyboard; whatever I can use to write with.
Sunday, 19 June 2011
A Sunday Times columist made a point worth remembering:
As much as I've always maintained that a diary is mine and no one has a right to read it, this point of view sort of makes more sense.
Sunday, 5 June 2011
Friday, 5 November 2010
Sometimes you just gotta say one little word... "no"
I think we've established that last week was a kerfuffle.
It became clear by day 2 that getting home at 7pm, eating dinner, then cracking on with writing articles until 12am every night wasn't going to work for me, my relationship, or my general wellbeing.
So this week, The Writer was all set to send me another big batch of articles to write, and I thought it best to chat about how much time I can spend on the project. You know, given that I'm no longer spending my days raiding the fridge and talking to dogs. He responded saying that he had a load more articles for November, and hoped we could work around my schedule. After all, the pieces I'd written so far were apparently very good. Ahem.
The Writer is a salesman of sorts; he makes a good living from pitching ideas and getting others - magazine editors, TV producers, company CEOs - to buy into them. Simply put, he's better at convincing me to do something than I am at saying "nope, sorry, can't".
But given the whole err, can't-really-start-work-til-8pm thing, I proposed five or six articles / hours a week, down from his 12. I was being realistic. What's the point in agreeing to deliver an amount you know you can't, and then thinking up excuses or falling short in quality or quantity? It wasn't an easy decision; I've always wanted to write for a living, but my full time job at The Company - the start of a possible career - has to come first.
My offer, however, was refused. And although his words said that he understood why I couldn't do all 50 pieces, his voice adopted an irritated tone. He reeled off a list of other projects he had on the go, and told me how busy he was; as if the hassle of finding someone else was the last thing he needed. It didn't feel like I was talking to someone who understood that I had a new job, a social life, weekends away, nowhere to work at home, flat hunting and a need to see my boyfriend once in a while, all requiring precious evenings, or that I was keen to do as much as I could, it felt like I was getting a guilt trip. I was reminded of the strop thrown by The Polo Player when I quit being a groom, and the horrible feeling I'd got from feeling that I'd let someone down.
"Look", I said, "The offer's there, I can always do the minimum. But at the moment, while I get into this new job, I can't commit to any more than that."
So we left it there. Me feeling guilty, and like I'd missed an opportunity, but then gradually less so. It's beginning to dawn that some people just don't listen, and likely never will.
It became clear by day 2 that getting home at 7pm, eating dinner, then cracking on with writing articles until 12am every night wasn't going to work for me, my relationship, or my general wellbeing.
So this week, The Writer was all set to send me another big batch of articles to write, and I thought it best to chat about how much time I can spend on the project. You know, given that I'm no longer spending my days raiding the fridge and talking to dogs. He responded saying that he had a load more articles for November, and hoped we could work around my schedule. After all, the pieces I'd written so far were apparently very good. Ahem.
The Writer is a salesman of sorts; he makes a good living from pitching ideas and getting others - magazine editors, TV producers, company CEOs - to buy into them. Simply put, he's better at convincing me to do something than I am at saying "nope, sorry, can't".
But given the whole err, can't-really-start-work-til-8pm thing, I proposed five or six articles / hours a week, down from his 12. I was being realistic. What's the point in agreeing to deliver an amount you know you can't, and then thinking up excuses or falling short in quality or quantity? It wasn't an easy decision; I've always wanted to write for a living, but my full time job at The Company - the start of a possible career - has to come first.
My offer, however, was refused. And although his words said that he understood why I couldn't do all 50 pieces, his voice adopted an irritated tone. He reeled off a list of other projects he had on the go, and told me how busy he was; as if the hassle of finding someone else was the last thing he needed. It didn't feel like I was talking to someone who understood that I had a new job, a social life, weekends away, nowhere to work at home, flat hunting and a need to see my boyfriend once in a while, all requiring precious evenings, or that I was keen to do as much as I could, it felt like I was getting a guilt trip. I was reminded of the strop thrown by The Polo Player when I quit being a groom, and the horrible feeling I'd got from feeling that I'd let someone down.
"Look", I said, "The offer's there, I can always do the minimum. But at the moment, while I get into this new job, I can't commit to any more than that."
So we left it there. Me feeling guilty, and like I'd missed an opportunity, but then gradually less so. It's beginning to dawn that some people just don't listen, and likely never will.
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Half way, first week, bloody knackered.
After years of holding the prestigious title of Office Temp, it's fair to say I've had more first days at work than hot dinners.
In fact, this was my fourth 'first day' at The Company, so any worries about dress code (the casual side of smart casual), the hours (10 til 6, and now the odd weekend), the location (where it's always been) and the getting there (20 minutes on the tube) weren't nearly as stressful as your average first day generally is.
That said, there is always that moment of apprehension when you walk through the door, the introductions start, and you try to judge whether you're going to be grabbing after work drinks with your new work mates, or scrabbling at the window to get away from them come 6pm.
But first impressions in this case were good. You know, when you immediately get on with the people in your team, and you're all woohoooo about finding a job that appeals to the imaginative rather than clerical tea-making side of your brain. It's amazing how being back at work - even just for three days - can make you feel more positive about all the bits of life that hadn't seemed so great the week before.
The routine of work can and no doubt will be boring, but after not having one for so long, it can also be the most reassuring thing in the world.
Saying that, having spent this evening concocting more articles for The Writer, I'll be a lot happier when said routine doesn't involve coming home and tackling an excel spreadsheet of 50 Places to Bore Your Children Senseless During The Holidays.
My room is a mess of half drunk glasses of water, clothing, plates and topless bottles. But my eyelids have the final say: one job at a time, for this girl, is enough.
In fact, this was my fourth 'first day' at The Company, so any worries about dress code (the casual side of smart casual), the hours (10 til 6, and now the odd weekend), the location (where it's always been) and the getting there (20 minutes on the tube) weren't nearly as stressful as your average first day generally is.
That said, there is always that moment of apprehension when you walk through the door, the introductions start, and you try to judge whether you're going to be grabbing after work drinks with your new work mates, or scrabbling at the window to get away from them come 6pm.
But first impressions in this case were good. You know, when you immediately get on with the people in your team, and you're all woohoooo about finding a job that appeals to the imaginative rather than clerical tea-making side of your brain. It's amazing how being back at work - even just for three days - can make you feel more positive about all the bits of life that hadn't seemed so great the week before.
The routine of work can and no doubt will be boring, but after not having one for so long, it can also be the most reassuring thing in the world.
Saying that, having spent this evening concocting more articles for The Writer, I'll be a lot happier when said routine doesn't involve coming home and tackling an excel spreadsheet of 50 Places to Bore Your Children Senseless During The Holidays.
My room is a mess of half drunk glasses of water, clothing, plates and topless bottles. But my eyelids have the final say: one job at a time, for this girl, is enough.
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
Searching for a place to call work
With a week before my new contract starts, I've been attempting to do some more work for the Writer. But as you may have guessed, home, with a retired mother, two dogs and - as I have just been informed this morning - a cleaner doing the ironing, is not really an option.
So I have been on the hunt for the perfect workplace, and largely failing every step of the way.
My local library turned out to be a 1950s inspired wireless free zone. And call me a non-believer, but I just didn't think Britannica Encyclopedia would rival TripAdvisor when it came to up-to-date opinions on Peak District museums. The librarians pointed me towards Starbucks, which I trotted along to only to find the words "BT Open Zone", aka, "Pay, Suckers" blazoned across the front, and screaming children stacked across the interior.
Next.
An independent cafe, newly opened and full of employees sparkling with the need to please beckoned me though it's doors and into it's WiFi zone. The strawberry smoothie was lovely. No, I wouldn't like another drink, thanks. No, no, really, not even water. Oh, alright, a chamomile tea please. That's all thanks. I'm fine. Yes, the WiFi is working. Oh! No, thanks, I'm fine for drinks at the moment. Yes, everything's wonderful, and if it wasn't, I'd walk the two steps from my table to the counter to tell you alllll about it.
Nuff said.
(There's a lot to be said for coffee chains taking over the world, but in this case, there's more to be said for the anonymity they afford.)
Yesterday, with my word count at zero, I ventured to Kings Cross and the British Library. As it turns out, the wireless internet connection at this world renowned institution of British learning is rivalled only by the one at my local library. I spent almost two hours in purgatory, otherwise known as a blank page covered in the words "Loading...", "Transferring data...", Server not found" and "Problem loading page", before calling time on another unproductive day.
This morning? Well, it's only 9:50am, yet after a pre-9am run in with my mother before I'd even left my bed, this morning deserves a blog post all of its own.
This freelancing stuff just isn't working.
And neither, it seems, am I.
So I have been on the hunt for the perfect workplace, and largely failing every step of the way.
My local library turned out to be a 1950s inspired wireless free zone. And call me a non-believer, but I just didn't think Britannica Encyclopedia would rival TripAdvisor when it came to up-to-date opinions on Peak District museums. The librarians pointed me towards Starbucks, which I trotted along to only to find the words "BT Open Zone", aka, "Pay, Suckers" blazoned across the front, and screaming children stacked across the interior.
Next.
An independent cafe, newly opened and full of employees sparkling with the need to please beckoned me though it's doors and into it's WiFi zone. The strawberry smoothie was lovely. No, I wouldn't like another drink, thanks. No, no, really, not even water. Oh, alright, a chamomile tea please. That's all thanks. I'm fine. Yes, the WiFi is working. Oh! No, thanks, I'm fine for drinks at the moment. Yes, everything's wonderful, and if it wasn't, I'd walk the two steps from my table to the counter to tell you alllll about it.
Nuff said.
(There's a lot to be said for coffee chains taking over the world, but in this case, there's more to be said for the anonymity they afford.)
Yesterday, with my word count at zero, I ventured to Kings Cross and the British Library. As it turns out, the wireless internet connection at this world renowned institution of British learning is rivalled only by the one at my local library. I spent almost two hours in purgatory, otherwise known as a blank page covered in the words "Loading...", "Transferring data...", Server not found" and "Problem loading page", before calling time on another unproductive day.
This morning? Well, it's only 9:50am, yet after a pre-9am run in with my mother before I'd even left my bed, this morning deserves a blog post all of its own.
This freelancing stuff just isn't working.
And neither, it seems, am I.
Thursday, 14 October 2010
Distracted
All week I've been working from home, knocking my way through a spreadsheet. The aim is to splatter 150 words of colour onto a list of ideas that would probably be misconstrued as a threat to any teenager who chanced upon it.
Once I get down to business, once I've dribbled orange juice down my front and sprinkled toast crumbs on my laptop, once I've blogged and twittered and BBC News-ed; once the TV's turned off and the kitchen's been tidied and I've remembered to have a shower, brush my teeth, and do something with my hair (all of which I forgot to do yesterday); once I've got dressed in the sort of clothes you reserve for hangovers, scoured the fridge for the strange smell within, investigated the freezer's ongoing hum and booked a pilates class for next Tuesday;
once I've checked my watch and seen it's lunchtime, cooked sausages, eaten them, stacked the plate on top of the others, decided it looks messy and washed them all up; once I've sat down and opened Excel, opened Word and opened Google and typed in the next place on the list...
...once I've done all that, and started feeling overwhelmed by the task ahead because I'm hopelessly behind schedule and attempting to sound all clever about places I've never visited, once I've realised that I have the attention span of a toad, something that isn't helped by the ongoing rumble of music and radio presenters, interspersed by hourly bursts announcing the 1, 2, 3, and 4 o'clock news from the flat upstairs, or is it downstairs? Once I've put an ear to the floor to find out, stomped back and forth, thrown a pen at the ceiling just in case, then retreated to the bedroom only to find the sound stops minutes later, forcing me to relocate back to the kitchen table,
Then, and only then, do I start actually doing the work.
...before stopping to blog about it.
This, my friends, is a problem.
Once I get down to business, once I've dribbled orange juice down my front and sprinkled toast crumbs on my laptop, once I've blogged and twittered and BBC News-ed; once the TV's turned off and the kitchen's been tidied and I've remembered to have a shower, brush my teeth, and do something with my hair (all of which I forgot to do yesterday); once I've got dressed in the sort of clothes you reserve for hangovers, scoured the fridge for the strange smell within, investigated the freezer's ongoing hum and booked a pilates class for next Tuesday;
once I've checked my watch and seen it's lunchtime, cooked sausages, eaten them, stacked the plate on top of the others, decided it looks messy and washed them all up; once I've sat down and opened Excel, opened Word and opened Google and typed in the next place on the list...
...once I've done all that, and started feeling overwhelmed by the task ahead because I'm hopelessly behind schedule and attempting to sound all clever about places I've never visited, once I've realised that I have the attention span of a toad, something that isn't helped by the ongoing rumble of music and radio presenters, interspersed by hourly bursts announcing the 1, 2, 3, and 4 o'clock news from the flat upstairs, or is it downstairs? Once I've put an ear to the floor to find out, stomped back and forth, thrown a pen at the ceiling just in case, then retreated to the bedroom only to find the sound stops minutes later, forcing me to relocate back to the kitchen table,
Then, and only then, do I start actually doing the work.
...before stopping to blog about it.
This, my friends, is a problem.
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
Last night
Having approved the writing samples I sent him last week, he's now given me a list of 48 mini-articles to get on with while I flat and cat sit in east London. I'm finding it's less festivals and frolicking, more winter gardens and walks on paths named after flowers. In short, if I end up making this stuff sound interesting, I'm a bloody wordsmith. In fact, if I manage to actually work today actually working instead of blogging, twittering, cooking and having "well earned rests", that'll be a feat in itself. How do people work from home?
Anyway, the finely crafted Procrastination Bolognaise was later demolished, and a tired Boyfriend was happily munching on some wine gums. We were settling down for a disgustingly coupley night in front of the telly, complete with cats, when my phone rang.
Sorry for calling out of hours, the voice began, but I'm still at work.
The Boy sat on the floor; back resting against the sofa, his attention alternating between laptop and TV.
"Oh, hi, no worries," I replied, getting up and walking to the window.
"I just wanted to call and say thank you for coming in to see us on Friday."
Balls. My heart dropped. I'd known it was coming, a gut feeling told me I hadn't been successful this time. Is a phone call better than an email? It's nice of them to take the time to call. Will this be more awkward for me, or her? Will I be upset when I put down the phone?
"Ah, that's ok."
"I wanted to say thanks for coming, and we'd like to offer you the job"
Worrrrrrd?
"Oh! Really? Brilliant news. Thanks! Ah, that's great news. I thought you were calling to say I didn't get it. Thanks, I'll defintely take it!"
Did you get the job? mouthed the Boy, tracking my side of the conversation.
We celebrated my new contract with £6.99 corner shop wine, microwave popcorn and Toy Story.
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
Status: ongoing
Friday marks the end of my contract at the Company.
I've clung on for as long as I could. Unfortunately, the Sick Employee I'm covering for has now been deemed fit for work, which means my services are no longer required. Or, as I like to think after seeing an email stating 'we want to keep her' from a fellow colleague, can no longer be afforded by the department's shrinking budget.
Granted, work isn't a subject you can write about as freely these days, especially when your team is deeply embedded behind the scenes in an increasingly small online world. Although documenting my activities between the hours of 10 and 6 would make for very amusing reading (Oh, the emails I get. Oh, the confidentiality agreements), it would most likely lead to me getting unceremoniously fired at best, or at worst, lynched by the angry mob of google-happy, self-righteous and just plain odd people who crop up on a daily basis in my inbox.
Saying that, this is the first non-dogsbody job that I've actually enjoyed. And so last week I commenced the scrabbling for available vacancies elsewhere, in the hope that my days of carefree spending (reference: the nice big Whistles, Ollie & Nic and French Connection bags that came home with me after this weekend's shopping spree) will not be cut short.
An appropriate time, then, for The Travel Writer to make a surprise appearance. We've been out of contact since the conclusion of my internship (the conclusion being that I needed to earn money for my efforts, or at least a byline), and I left to go travelling. But last week, he got in touch with a news of a big project - and accompanying payment - that could well mean my first paid feature writing job is about to kick off.
So, to summarise: endings, beginnings and the never ending search for money. Just life ongoing then really, isn't it?
I've clung on for as long as I could. Unfortunately, the Sick Employee I'm covering for has now been deemed fit for work, which means my services are no longer required. Or, as I like to think after seeing an email stating 'we want to keep her' from a fellow colleague, can no longer be afforded by the department's shrinking budget.
Granted, work isn't a subject you can write about as freely these days, especially when your team is deeply embedded behind the scenes in an increasingly small online world. Although documenting my activities between the hours of 10 and 6 would make for very amusing reading (Oh, the emails I get. Oh, the confidentiality agreements), it would most likely lead to me getting unceremoniously fired at best, or at worst, lynched by the angry mob of google-happy, self-righteous and just plain odd people who crop up on a daily basis in my inbox.
Saying that, this is the first non-dogsbody job that I've actually enjoyed. And so last week I commenced the scrabbling for available vacancies elsewhere, in the hope that my days of carefree spending (reference: the nice big Whistles, Ollie & Nic and French Connection bags that came home with me after this weekend's shopping spree) will not be cut short.
An appropriate time, then, for The Travel Writer to make a surprise appearance. We've been out of contact since the conclusion of my internship (the conclusion being that I needed to earn money for my efforts, or at least a byline), and I left to go travelling. But last week, he got in touch with a news of a big project - and accompanying payment - that could well mean my first paid feature writing job is about to kick off.
So, to summarise: endings, beginnings and the never ending search for money. Just life ongoing then really, isn't it?
Monday, 13 September 2010
Toilet Humour
There are many reasons why I'd like my current work contract to continue long past these two starter weeks.
I like the office. I like the requirements of my job. I like the easy journey into work. I like the way my phone never rings. I like how no one asks me why the printer isn't working. I like being invited into meetings to contribute, instead of take minutes. I like the way my job title doesn't include someone elses name. I like working. I like being out of the house.
But most of all, I like the people. I like them because they're the sort of people who go into the toilet armed with a pen, ready to correct the mistakes their fellow colleagues have already made.
In short, if you're going to attempt a grammatical correction in this Company, be prepared to get marked out of ten.
I like the office. I like the requirements of my job. I like the easy journey into work. I like the way my phone never rings. I like how no one asks me why the printer isn't working. I like being invited into meetings to contribute, instead of take minutes. I like the way my job title doesn't include someone elses name. I like working. I like being out of the house.
But most of all, I like the people. I like them because they're the sort of people who go into the toilet armed with a pen, ready to correct the mistakes their fellow colleagues have already made.
In short, if you're going to attempt a grammatical correction in this Company, be prepared to get marked out of ten.
Monday, 19 July 2010
Owwwwwwwwwwwwwww
It's going to be weird going home. Once the novelty of seeing family, friends and the doggles wears off, it'll be back to the daily grind.
The thing is, I have no daily grind. The work question is going to pop up in the same breath as 'how was your trip?', and this time I'm not sure what the answer's going to be. Staying away from the comfortable clasp of a secretarial / PA role is the first challenge. Already, a job offer back on reception at the Little School of Horrors has landed in my inbox and been politely declined. It would have sorted out my finances in a few months, and helped with the County Council debt I racked up the last time I worked there. But for one, if an admin job is on the cards, it'll have to be in central London. For two, occasionally I value my sanity more than money. For three, the County Council overpaid me. They can wait for their cash.
Writing for magazines...well, that's always been something I've wanted to do. A little travel section here and there would be ideal now I've seen a bit of the world. But I know that going in that direction probably means more working for free. Having worked as assistant to The Writer for almost six months, I know internships are all good wonderful great experience, but it earnt me presicely 0. Some people can deal with that, some people have the drive to keep doing something when rewards aren't monetary. Perhaps I just don't. The fact is, I'm nearly 26. I want to move out. And I can't move out of home unless I'm earning real, actual, spend-me-money.
Sometimes it feels like I missed the writing career boat; that my CV is now outdated thanks to the wonderful array of secretarial jobs I've collected over the years.
---------------
One of the assignments The Writer gave me to research and write on his behalf last year was a "24 hours in..." piece for a trade magazine. While looking into the 'drink' section, I chanced upon my holy grail: a cafe specialising in beer, wine and accompanying cheese. I'd like to say that our choice to visit Philadelphia lay with some other reason; the history, even the famous cheese steaks...but it didn't. Truth is, ever since I'd written that piece, I've wanted to go to the sort of cafe I've been hankering after for most of my sociable life.
So, after a day sweating our way around Washington DC's famous landmarks, we drove to Philly, checked into our hotel (unfortunately the hotels I'd suggested in my piece were a little high end for our budget, the Holiday Inn would have to suffice) and I got googling. We spent the better part of the night upstairs in Tria, a fermentation school-turned-cafe, ogling and devouring an extensive menu of beers, wine and cheese. The menus were arranged according to taste, and by the time we'd bulldozed our way through all 5 pages, we were fed, watered and content. Staff, flavours and service, all was epic. London needs a Tria. I demand it. Having never got to see the article in print, today I did some more googling. There it was, published March 2009 and now stored electronically online: the piece I'd researched, written, and received constructive feedback for. It was, of course, under The Writer's name. That had been the deal, and it did wonders for my writing and confidence. But today, seeing my work with someone elses name attributed to it no longer felt like an achievement. It just annoyed me. I wanted my name under it.
Perhaps I've still got that drive after all.
Sunday, 9 August 2009
An explanation
06 August, 2009 01:53 The Unbearable Banishment said...
Well, you don't have to tell your friends what you're up to but you can certainly let us in on it. How long will you make us wait?
I should probably just mention, I'm not withholding my future plans to create some weird bloggish suspense. In fact, if today was the 16th May 2009, I would have shared my plans outright; safe in the knowledge that the information would go no further. But it's August now, init? Things have changed, mon petit morse.
Nearly 2 and a half months ago, two people I know in real life found this blog. The first person was someone I had been struggling to tolerate for a couple of years now. She then informed another, who I considered a very good friend but had been the catalyst for a recent post about being let down. They read posts that named no names, recognised themselves and applied the sentiments to today. They clicked on the 'Relationships' label. Here, and this hurts the most, they read my thoughts about the break up. One would also have read posts about herself, as a friend that I had distanced myself from and no longer felt close to. A handful of issues that I couldn't resolve until I'd written them down. As bloggers, that's a process I don't have to explain to you. When I removed the posts they continually searched for, they carried on looking for them - sometimes for 45 minutes at a time. The visits have fizzled now, but Stat counter informs me of every time they've been on this blog, what they've looked for and read. The locations tie in with areas of the country they have visited. Most of my friends know I have an anonymous blog. As such, I liken the situation to leaving your diary on a table in front of close friends, one of them picking it up, having a read and passing it on to another. Then getting pissed off about what they find.
Those are the facts. I've written over 500 posts since 2006. A lot has happened in that time, yet I've moaned about Fearne bloody Cotton more times than I have my friends. I know this. Long time readers, you'll know this.
As for what they think, it's all guess work. Oh, and the odd facebook status from one of them, but I'd expect nothing less:
(The fact that this girl will only be happy for me when I'm single, morbidly obese and festering on the Ugly Tree is a moot point.)
Anyway. This has largely unaffected the posts I've written since, but not posting about this situation (which has been weighing on my mind) seemed alien. It's a something all my friends are aware of, whether it's spoken about or not. Ergo, I can write about it. Much like the other things they've read, it won't be news to anyone in real life.
When you hear what I'm going to do, you probably won't be amazed. You'll probably think "Oh, is that it?". But at the moment, I can't share my plans because my friends don't know about it yet, and I don't want them to. Not because I want to keep you in the dark.
And that, my dears, will always be the rule.
Monday, 3 August 2009
Complaint E-mail produces not a reply, but a visit....
I do love writing complaint letters. You may have guessed from reading Friday's offering. I relish constructing them from start to finish. With complaint letters, it's important to bundle up all the rage you feel and channel it into articulate, clear sentences. Explain what happened, why it was inconvenient, state the facts and highlight how the service you received differs from what you'd expect. Don't ham it up with feelings and personal sob stories, they're see through. Don't eff and blind your way to a response. There's no need to insult anybody, swear, or be rude, about the company or the person you're writing to. Last year I worked somewhere that involved sifting through boxes and boxes of complaint letters, and the ones we took notice of were clear, concise, well written and spell checked. Complaint letters aren't about letting rip with how pissed off you are, they're about expressing your dissatisfaction, explaining what went wrong and eliciting a co-operative response from the person you're writing to.
If you write a good complaint letter, you won't get fobbed off with just an automated apology or standard response. You'll get a reply from someone who genuinely understands that you're angry and wants to resolve the problem so they don't lose business.
(Unless it's BT, in which case...you'll probably just get ignored.)
My complaint e-mail from Friday was a good one. That's not me being big headed. I know it was good because bad complaint letters don't result in the office-based Company Manager standing on your door step, personally delivering your late package as a good will gesture.
As we talked on our driveway, Charlie lay sleepy eyed, stretched out with his paws hanging over the doorstep and doing his best impression of a Non-Dangerous Dog. I explained the situation, he listened. I suggested that customers should be given at least 30 seconds to answer the door and the Manager agreed. He acknowledged that on Friday, I'd had to stay in all day for a delivery that wasn't even attempted. He reassured me that he'll speak to the delivery driver concerned and that there won't be a problem again.
Job done. Customer satisfied.
My new external hard drive is backing up my laptop contents as I type, and my Edward Cullen fix is waiting to be read.
My frustrated mood has almost lifted...
If you write a good complaint letter, you won't get fobbed off with just an automated apology or standard response. You'll get a reply from someone who genuinely understands that you're angry and wants to resolve the problem so they don't lose business.
(Unless it's BT, in which case...you'll probably just get ignored.)
My complaint e-mail from Friday was a good one. That's not me being big headed. I know it was good because bad complaint letters don't result in the office-based Company Manager standing on your door step, personally delivering your late package as a good will gesture.
As we talked on our driveway, Charlie lay sleepy eyed, stretched out with his paws hanging over the doorstep and doing his best impression of a Non-Dangerous Dog. I explained the situation, he listened. I suggested that customers should be given at least 30 seconds to answer the door and the Manager agreed. He acknowledged that on Friday, I'd had to stay in all day for a delivery that wasn't even attempted. He reassured me that he'll speak to the delivery driver concerned and that there won't be a problem again.Job done. Customer satisfied.
My new external hard drive is backing up my laptop contents as I type, and my Edward Cullen fix is waiting to be read.
My frustrated mood has almost lifted...
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
I'll do anything for a writing job...
...but I won't do that. (click for bigger picture)
There's something a bit obscure about an employer asking a potential junior writer to prattle on about sex toys...
(Re: Swine Flu - I must thank you all for your concern. You have been rather more sympathetic about my viral predicament than my fellow office workers, one of whom asked if he could do an ‘Office sweepstake” as to whether I’ve got it or not. Charming. As if proof was needed, later, someone sneezed across the open plan room and before I knew what I was doing, I had involuntarily yelled “OINK” instead of “bless you”. Sometimes you just have to see the funny side of disease, or at least you do if you're my work colleagues)
There's something a bit obscure about an employer asking a potential junior writer to prattle on about sex toys...
(Re: Swine Flu - I must thank you all for your concern. You have been rather more sympathetic about my viral predicament than my fellow office workers, one of whom asked if he could do an ‘Office sweepstake” as to whether I’ve got it or not. Charming. As if proof was needed, later, someone sneezed across the open plan room and before I knew what I was doing, I had involuntarily yelled “OINK” instead of “bless you”. Sometimes you just have to see the funny side of disease, or at least you do if you're my work colleagues)
Monday, 13 July 2009
Work History
Oh, how I love working. No joke. I know that’s a really bloody weird thing to say, and most of you will be reading this in soul destroying offices doing a job you despise with people who irritate you to the point of committing Death By Stapler, but right now at this moment, I’m enjoying being at work - even if it is just three weeks temping. My mind changes on an almost weekly basis as to what it is I actually want to do, but nonetheless, I need to be working while I figure it out.
To the outsider, it seems as if I’ve flitted from temporary job to temporary job since leaving university, trying out different possible career options and dumping them when I realise they’re not what I want. I’m not sure if this experimentation is a good thing to have on a CV, or whether it’s a worrying “this girl can’t commit” warning to any potential employers, but I’ve come to the conclusion that doing something for free is better than doing nothing for free and sitting at home scratching my arse. And lord knows I’ve done a lot of something for free to avoid scratching my arse.
But to sort my head out as much as anything else, here’s a list of Things What I Learnt Since Leaving Uni.
Working in TV Ain’t For Me
I loved the initial 4 weeks work experience at the Big Broadcasting Company and when I was offered a job off the back of it, I snapped it up and had an exciting funtime. However, the money was awful and I hated making microwave dinners for an Arrogant Presenter before each live show. I realised I didn’t aspire to be a producer, or director…or much in the world of TV, really, so I left at the end of the series to pursue the writing dream.
Book publishing is tooooo slowwwww for Jooooooo
Reading is my favourite thing to do. Whizzing through a good book is my ideal way to spend a day, but the process of making that book is a long, slow, drawn out process. Unless you’re on the Michael Jackson bandwagon at Harper Collins this week, that is. It was all a bit too quiet and mundane, although working in the children’s department had it’s plus points. The clincher was that it required months of unpaid work to get a head start on something I wasn’t quite sure about. I let it slide.
Magazine Publishing Lit My Fire
Now this job, I liked. I had a week of working on the editorial team of a leading Woman’s Monthly Magazine (ooh err). Impressed the right people, enjoyed the deadlines and demands – but had run out of money after a summer of working for free and travelling. I needed money. Enter my old favourite…
PA to the Man Who Got My Name Wrong and Left His Dirty Coffee Cups on My Desk
Difficult man, but absolutely amazing working environment (got paid well too. Bonus) and the social events kept me busy through the breakup. I decided I could handle being a PA if I had enough to do and didn’t work for someone who called me Joanne all the time. Made good friends who I still see a lot. Shame they chucked me out when finances tightened.
I Left School For a Reason
I am never going to work in a school ever again, or believe my mum when she says “We need someone to fill in for a few days until we find someone permanent”. Cue 3 months as an admin assistant; which involved sitting in front of a computer with no solitaire, no internet, and surrounded by lots of women whinging about their weight and staff room biscuits. Shudder. I repeat: never again.
Freelance is mostly free
Ahh, the Writer. Writer? Writer? Where For Art Thou, Writer? I have no idea. He hasn’t contacted me since June, no doubt blaming travel commitments and things being typically manic. Things would be less manic if he let me help, but freelancers are solitary beasts and I fear he is too set in his ways to really let me help with the work load. However, I got great experience, a trip abroad and wrote for some big name titles, albeit under his name. Most importantly, I realised that the freelance life maybe isn't for me; working from home is no match for a buzzing office.
So children, what have we learnt?
Err…
Well.
I think I’d quite like to try working in a zoo. Or the lifetime ambition of a circus acrobat. Failing that, I'll just keep applying for jobs in a vaguely creative officey environment in the hope that someone says "Ello darlin, now then. I tell you what you little rascal, why don't you come and work for me?"
Or perhaps not exactly that, but you get the message.
To the outsider, it seems as if I’ve flitted from temporary job to temporary job since leaving university, trying out different possible career options and dumping them when I realise they’re not what I want. I’m not sure if this experimentation is a good thing to have on a CV, or whether it’s a worrying “this girl can’t commit” warning to any potential employers, but I’ve come to the conclusion that doing something for free is better than doing nothing for free and sitting at home scratching my arse. And lord knows I’ve done a lot of something for free to avoid scratching my arse.
But to sort my head out as much as anything else, here’s a list of Things What I Learnt Since Leaving Uni.
Working in TV Ain’t For Me
I loved the initial 4 weeks work experience at the Big Broadcasting Company and when I was offered a job off the back of it, I snapped it up and had an exciting funtime. However, the money was awful and I hated making microwave dinners for an Arrogant Presenter before each live show. I realised I didn’t aspire to be a producer, or director…or much in the world of TV, really, so I left at the end of the series to pursue the writing dream.
Book publishing is tooooo slowwwww for Jooooooo
Reading is my favourite thing to do. Whizzing through a good book is my ideal way to spend a day, but the process of making that book is a long, slow, drawn out process. Unless you’re on the Michael Jackson bandwagon at Harper Collins this week, that is. It was all a bit too quiet and mundane, although working in the children’s department had it’s plus points. The clincher was that it required months of unpaid work to get a head start on something I wasn’t quite sure about. I let it slide.
Magazine Publishing Lit My Fire
Now this job, I liked. I had a week of working on the editorial team of a leading Woman’s Monthly Magazine (ooh err). Impressed the right people, enjoyed the deadlines and demands – but had run out of money after a summer of working for free and travelling. I needed money. Enter my old favourite…
PA to the Man Who Got My Name Wrong and Left His Dirty Coffee Cups on My Desk
Difficult man, but absolutely amazing working environment (got paid well too. Bonus) and the social events kept me busy through the breakup. I decided I could handle being a PA if I had enough to do and didn’t work for someone who called me Joanne all the time. Made good friends who I still see a lot. Shame they chucked me out when finances tightened.
I Left School For a Reason
I am never going to work in a school ever again, or believe my mum when she says “We need someone to fill in for a few days until we find someone permanent”. Cue 3 months as an admin assistant; which involved sitting in front of a computer with no solitaire, no internet, and surrounded by lots of women whinging about their weight and staff room biscuits. Shudder. I repeat: never again.
Freelance is mostly free
Ahh, the Writer. Writer? Writer? Where For Art Thou, Writer? I have no idea. He hasn’t contacted me since June, no doubt blaming travel commitments and things being typically manic. Things would be less manic if he let me help, but freelancers are solitary beasts and I fear he is too set in his ways to really let me help with the work load. However, I got great experience, a trip abroad and wrote for some big name titles, albeit under his name. Most importantly, I realised that the freelance life maybe isn't for me; working from home is no match for a buzzing office.
So children, what have we learnt?
Err…
Well.
I think I’d quite like to try working in a zoo. Or the lifetime ambition of a circus acrobat. Failing that, I'll just keep applying for jobs in a vaguely creative officey environment in the hope that someone says "Ello darlin, now then. I tell you what you little rascal, why don't you come and work for me?"
Or perhaps not exactly that, but you get the message.
Monday, 22 June 2009
Applying
Seeing as The Writer is AWOL at the moment, doing what travel writers do and err, travelling...I have been applying for jobs.
I hate applying for jobs. Mostly because I'm lazy and in the past have always managed to get a job without going through a lengthy application process. I just sort of end up there and that's that. Usually it's friend of a friend type thing, or unpaid work experience which leads onto something. Recruitment agents have occasionally come through, but the last one looked like Spongebob Squarepants and he doesn't email me his carefully thought out spam emails any more, so I'm going at it alone.
Thing is, I get half way through completing an application form and get bored with trying to not make myself sound like a lemon. At least application forms pretty much tell you what to write though; not like covering letters.
I hate writing covering letters. I hate them more than I hate sandwiches with squishy, cold, wet fillings like tomato. Say what you want, writing a good covering letter is near on impossible, simply because unless you're able to list 'psychic medium' as part of your skillset, there's no knowing what they're after. Add a chatty element and they might think you're not serious enough. Go for the formal touch and you risk sounding like you spend your evenings licking your own reflection on a spoon.
And all that official jobspeak is a bit mental to be honest. It just baffles me, puts me off, "effective communicator", "results driven", all that jazz. If the Apprentice taught me anything, it's not to resort to cliches in your applications (or lie about your references). But the amount of jobs that are advertised with all this HR jargon is ridiculous.
My favourite is "can-do attitude". What, as opposed to a "sod off mate, I can't be arsed" attitude? Surely that's not only a bit of a given, but also highly ambiguous. "Can do" what, exactly? Use a computer? Wipe your own bum? The job you're applying for? Lick your own elbow?
Then there are ones that ask for a photo. They slip the request in at the end, just when you're all enthusiastic about the job and finding out how to apply and thinking 'Yeah, ths one's in the bag'. Then BAM - Please send your CV, Covering letter and a recent photo. What, so you can check I don't have piggy eyes and a toothy grin? Bit dodgy, that. Tell you what, let's swap. You can see me, and I'll have a photo of the entire office so I know who to avoid at the Christmas party.
Salary expectations always get me, too. I don't have a clue what to say when they tell me to specify how much I want to get paid. Seriously, what can I put? "Well, I'm in the habit of working for free - so just throw me some peanuts and we'll call it evens". It's like bloody 'Play Your Cards Right', go to high and you're out. Go too low, and your out. Salary negotiable depending on facial features. I'd love to see that.
I'll be honest, a pat on the head is a salary increase from where I'm standing.
I hate applying for jobs. Mostly because I'm lazy and in the past have always managed to get a job without going through a lengthy application process. I just sort of end up there and that's that. Usually it's friend of a friend type thing, or unpaid work experience which leads onto something. Recruitment agents have occasionally come through, but the last one looked like Spongebob Squarepants and he doesn't email me his carefully thought out spam emails any more, so I'm going at it alone.
Thing is, I get half way through completing an application form and get bored with trying to not make myself sound like a lemon. At least application forms pretty much tell you what to write though; not like covering letters.
I hate writing covering letters. I hate them more than I hate sandwiches with squishy, cold, wet fillings like tomato. Say what you want, writing a good covering letter is near on impossible, simply because unless you're able to list 'psychic medium' as part of your skillset, there's no knowing what they're after. Add a chatty element and they might think you're not serious enough. Go for the formal touch and you risk sounding like you spend your evenings licking your own reflection on a spoon.
And all that official jobspeak is a bit mental to be honest. It just baffles me, puts me off, "effective communicator", "results driven", all that jazz. If the Apprentice taught me anything, it's not to resort to cliches in your applications (or lie about your references). But the amount of jobs that are advertised with all this HR jargon is ridiculous.
My favourite is "can-do attitude". What, as opposed to a "sod off mate, I can't be arsed" attitude? Surely that's not only a bit of a given, but also highly ambiguous. "Can do" what, exactly? Use a computer? Wipe your own bum? The job you're applying for? Lick your own elbow?
Then there are ones that ask for a photo. They slip the request in at the end, just when you're all enthusiastic about the job and finding out how to apply and thinking 'Yeah, ths one's in the bag'. Then BAM - Please send your CV, Covering letter and a recent photo. What, so you can check I don't have piggy eyes and a toothy grin? Bit dodgy, that. Tell you what, let's swap. You can see me, and I'll have a photo of the entire office so I know who to avoid at the Christmas party.
Salary expectations always get me, too. I don't have a clue what to say when they tell me to specify how much I want to get paid. Seriously, what can I put? "Well, I'm in the habit of working for free - so just throw me some peanuts and we'll call it evens". It's like bloody 'Play Your Cards Right', go to high and you're out. Go too low, and your out. Salary negotiable depending on facial features. I'd love to see that.
I'll be honest, a pat on the head is a salary increase from where I'm standing.
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
Network, network, network.
The Writer is taking me along to a media event with him tonight. The objective is to meet other journalists, editors, PRs and men make contacts, thus furrowing a little inward tunnel into the travel writing world.
What that actually translates to is two hours of standing around, drinking wine until I lose that manic, forced grin I seem to acquire when I'm in an awkward social situation where I don't know anyone, following the writer from group to group getting introduced to people whose name I will probably forget as soon as they've told me it.
I will then drift into my more charming persona, the one which pronounces all its T's and looks really very interested in everything you are saying. Smiling, nodding, agreeing, laughing, regaling those around me with choice amusing anecdotes - before winning a huge prize in the raffle, which I will gracefully walk up to the front and collect with an embarrassed yet endearing smile; making myself instantly memorable to everyone in the room.
Haha. Ahahahahahhaa. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAA. Bahahahahhahahahhahaa. Haha. Muahhahahaha. Yeeaaaaah. So anyway, what actually goes on at these things? And it's just a jeans and heels jobby, yeah?
What that actually translates to is two hours of standing around, drinking wine until I lose that manic, forced grin I seem to acquire when I'm in an awkward social situation where I don't know anyone, following the writer from group to group getting introduced to people whose name I will probably forget as soon as they've told me it.
I will then drift into my more charming persona, the one which pronounces all its T's and looks really very interested in everything you are saying. Smiling, nodding, agreeing, laughing, regaling those around me with choice amusing anecdotes - before winning a huge prize in the raffle, which I will gracefully walk up to the front and collect with an embarrassed yet endearing smile; making myself instantly memorable to everyone in the room.
Haha. Ahahahahahhaa. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAA. Bahahahahhahahahhahaa. Haha. Muahhahahaha. Yeeaaaaah. So anyway, what actually goes on at these things? And it's just a jeans and heels jobby, yeah?
Thursday, 30 April 2009
Working from home is hard
Contrary to popular belief, working from home is hard.
I used to think working at home was a phrase that should always, forever, without fail be enveloped in the warm, snugly arms of speech marks. Like this..
"working from home"
...and accompanied by a speech bubble, which is preferably being uttered by a smug looking person with a knowing wink, like this:
Turns out, working from home does actually require work. You're not just doing the actual work you're meant to do, which is in my case writing an article on Croatia. You're also doing the job of manager, secretary and office snitch. It takes incredible self discipline to keep yourself on track when there are so many distractions dotted around your office, aka, the home.
The Manager is there to keep you doing what you're supposed to. Like visiting the fridge, which beckons every 2 minutes with it's knowing "I got what you want, I got what you need" whirr. Then there's the dogs which require numerous walks and general head patting, and the need to watch The Apprentice before you touch any other page on the internet, just in case you're inadvertently told who got fired.
Another distraction is the front door because unfortunately, Charity Shop collections only happen in the daytime. Then there's the house phone which I now have to answer even though it's never for me. In this way, despite my best efforts I am still a secretary.
To avoid falling into all these little potholes, my brain must also take on the role of Office Snitch. You know, that person you get in every office who keeps unconscious tabs on how many times so-and-so has been to the loo that morning. Or how much time they're spending making tea in the kitchen. Or how many times a week they're late coming back from lunch. Or what time they sneak out of the office at the end of the day.
So after a lot of thinking and organising, brain racking and timetabling...I've found the answer to my procrastination problem.
Staff. I'm hiring.
You'll be paid in a fresh, continuous stream of o2, which I hear is at a premium these days given the porky epidemic.
Just reply below, with your suitability for any of the above posts.
Any takers?
I used to think working at home was a phrase that should always, forever, without fail be enveloped in the warm, snugly arms of speech marks. Like this..
"working from home"
...and accompanied by a speech bubble, which is preferably being uttered by a smug looking person with a knowing wink, like this:
Turns out, working from home does actually require work. You're not just doing the actual work you're meant to do, which is in my case writing an article on Croatia. You're also doing the job of manager, secretary and office snitch. It takes incredible self discipline to keep yourself on track when there are so many distractions dotted around your office, aka, the home.
The Manager is there to keep you doing what you're supposed to. Like visiting the fridge, which beckons every 2 minutes with it's knowing "I got what you want, I got what you need" whirr. Then there's the dogs which require numerous walks and general head patting, and the need to watch The Apprentice before you touch any other page on the internet, just in case you're inadvertently told who got fired.
Another distraction is the front door because unfortunately, Charity Shop collections only happen in the daytime. Then there's the house phone which I now have to answer even though it's never for me. In this way, despite my best efforts I am still a secretary.
To avoid falling into all these little potholes, my brain must also take on the role of Office Snitch. You know, that person you get in every office who keeps unconscious tabs on how many times so-and-so has been to the loo that morning. Or how much time they're spending making tea in the kitchen. Or how many times a week they're late coming back from lunch. Or what time they sneak out of the office at the end of the day.
So after a lot of thinking and organising, brain racking and timetabling...I've found the answer to my procrastination problem.
Staff. I'm hiring.
You'll be paid in a fresh, continuous stream of o2, which I hear is at a premium these days given the porky epidemic.
Just reply below, with your suitability for any of the above posts.
Any takers?
Monday, 20 April 2009
Let it all out
I feel a bit weighed down tonight. Whether it's down to me being tired after the weekend and a long walk with the dogs today, or simply 'mind on my money / money on my mind' - I'm not sure. So excuse me while I regurgitate some thoughts.
In some ways, I feel better than I have done in ages. I'm not in what many people consider 'normal' work and now the Easter holidays have come to an end, the hand over to the new admin assistant at the Little School of Horrors done, I can finally start life as a writer. Thing is, something just doesn't feel right. I don't feel guilty about not working as I have done in the past, but then I don't actually feel like I'm working. I feel like I'm just sitting at home tapping things on a laptop and running out of money. Add that to the constant stream of people asking me "So, what are you going to do now?", not realising that I'm already doing it. They think I'm just sitting on my arse at home, too. I've had my internship for nearly 5 months now, have been doing it "full time" or should I say, available, for almost three weeks, yet I feel like I'm in the same position as I was in December. Progress? Nil.
The Writer is doing little to inspire my confidence in him. The upside to working with a successful and busy person is the immense experience I can potentially get, along with the esteem of being affiliated with someone who others think highly of. The downside is again that they're busy and therefore difficult to pin down; plans are constantly changing, deadlines need to be met, he's stressed with a million and one projects on the go. I suspect that deep down he doesn't have the time to really set up the systems and procedures necessary to make good use of an assistant, despite my numerous suggestions and offers to help. The problem is that he's been doing this job alone for over a decade and has got to the point where he's making a decent living from it, and he's recognised that an assistant could benefit two people - yet we're 5 months down the line and we still don't have the semblance of a routine. I refuse to believe that this is down to me having another job, as I've always been flexible. Sometimes, like today, where yet again I've tried to call (by arrangement) and yet again he tells me he's in the middle of something and will call me back (but hasn't) - I can't see it coming together long term.
So here's the dilemma: do I devote myself full time, but risk having weeks (like the last two) when we don't see or hardly talk to each other? Or do I get another part time job, albeit not the dreaded admin / secretarial, and always have something else getting in the way of really making a go of it?
The third option is one I'm already putting in practice, which is to set a deadline by which time if I don't feel I've made significant progress, then I'll make tracks in a different direction. At the moment that deadline is the end of July, when I want my name in print and / or my first commission. In the meantime, I'm keeping my options open.
...And trying to keep some momentum.
In some ways, I feel better than I have done in ages. I'm not in what many people consider 'normal' work and now the Easter holidays have come to an end, the hand over to the new admin assistant at the Little School of Horrors done, I can finally start life as a writer. Thing is, something just doesn't feel right. I don't feel guilty about not working as I have done in the past, but then I don't actually feel like I'm working. I feel like I'm just sitting at home tapping things on a laptop and running out of money. Add that to the constant stream of people asking me "So, what are you going to do now?", not realising that I'm already doing it. They think I'm just sitting on my arse at home, too. I've had my internship for nearly 5 months now, have been doing it "full time" or should I say, available, for almost three weeks, yet I feel like I'm in the same position as I was in December. Progress? Nil.
The Writer is doing little to inspire my confidence in him. The upside to working with a successful and busy person is the immense experience I can potentially get, along with the esteem of being affiliated with someone who others think highly of. The downside is again that they're busy and therefore difficult to pin down; plans are constantly changing, deadlines need to be met, he's stressed with a million and one projects on the go. I suspect that deep down he doesn't have the time to really set up the systems and procedures necessary to make good use of an assistant, despite my numerous suggestions and offers to help. The problem is that he's been doing this job alone for over a decade and has got to the point where he's making a decent living from it, and he's recognised that an assistant could benefit two people - yet we're 5 months down the line and we still don't have the semblance of a routine. I refuse to believe that this is down to me having another job, as I've always been flexible. Sometimes, like today, where yet again I've tried to call (by arrangement) and yet again he tells me he's in the middle of something and will call me back (but hasn't) - I can't see it coming together long term.
So here's the dilemma: do I devote myself full time, but risk having weeks (like the last two) when we don't see or hardly talk to each other? Or do I get another part time job, albeit not the dreaded admin / secretarial, and always have something else getting in the way of really making a go of it?
The third option is one I'm already putting in practice, which is to set a deadline by which time if I don't feel I've made significant progress, then I'll make tracks in a different direction. At the moment that deadline is the end of July, when I want my name in print and / or my first commission. In the meantime, I'm keeping my options open.
...And trying to keep some momentum.
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