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Making work work

I have a rent-paying job to go back to. That means less writing time. Huff.

It is no longer a surprise to me that being cross doesn't help.

With wrinkled nose, I remind myself how marvelous my job is:

  1. To get to work, I go outside. Outside is a fascinating place.

  2. At work, I talk to people (real ones). Talking to people is generally considered a good thing. How else will I hear new jokes or maintain my tenuous connection with popular culture?

  3. This job teaches me new things. They have nothing to do with creative writing but, in a universe filled with bizarre coincidences, they might one day be useful.

  4. At my desk, somebody needs me to do the stuff I’m doing, they even say thanks. Only me and my imaginary friends need me to write.

  5. Occasionally something unexpected and semi-surreal happens.

  6. There is a naughty vending machine.

  7. Because I go to work, I can sometimes buy shiny new shoes.

  8. Sometimes, on lucky days, I can make a difference that means something to another person (a real one, too).

Fingers crossed for this week...I'm in the mood for number 5.

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