Pressure. Pushing down on me. Pressing down on you.

I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the vacation. I just don’t want to work. I don’t want to be here. I just wish I were a professional novelist already.

I have to explain to people all the time that its not that I hate my job, because I don’t. Its that I’m not suited for this type of work ethic. I have a bad work ethic. I’m creative. This isn’t.

I know i’m doing well. But its hard, I guess I start to feel like “poor little rich girl.” Oh, poor me. I have a good job right out of college. Like, I have a friend whose main problem was that her parents wanted to bring her to Vegas on her 21st birthday but she wanted to party with her friends at home because otherwise they’d never do anything for her birthday.

I have to say its a stupid problem. Not really even worth complaining about. I like my job, for the most part. I like it that I’m not typing about gadgets or widgits or doing math all day. But the process never changes. I know that I’m going to have to write a story sometime. I know I’ll come into work and sit my ass down at a computer and stare at it for 8 hours. I’ll wait for people to email me back, though they never do. I’ll try to hide what I’m really doing on this computer.

I wish that people would just get done with this novel of mine so I can work on it and start sending it out. I’m very happy that people are offering to help but at the same time, I’m a very impatient person. I want to write for a living. But not like this.

One Response to “Pressure. Pushing down on me. Pressing down on you.”

  1. Texas T-Bone
    August 13th, 2003 16:17

    I’m an amateur novelist. The pay for that really stinks.

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