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ontologyWell, no more writing on the job for me. Bah. And of course it was Cranky Manager who told me, although she did it fairly diplomatically. The thing that upsets me, however, is that she, by her own admission, does not mind me writing, the store manager is very unlikely to mind me writing, but Company Policy minds me writing, and if The Man happened to walk by and saw me writing on the job they would probably fire me on the spot. I kind of hate corporations right now.
Let me rant for a minute.
In better news, I was slated to lead worship all by me lonesome this morning and had scrapped together some songs -- all gospelly things that I enjoy playing and singing, because I am very tired of limp worship songs, but I was not exactly looking forward to it because I am Not Very Good at leading worship. So I was practising a bit, and then Jonathan got on the piano and we ended up jamming for a bit, which turned into impromptu-ly adding him to the roster. It was the best worship ever. My voice only did something funny once, the congregation was actually singing a lot, I managed to be slightly charismatic ("okay everybody, we're going to sing this song now!" and "all together now!" and "one more time!"), Jonathan sounded fantastic, I felt really involved in the music, and I wish I could clearly say that it was because I was worshipping, but I can't tell, really, between music-propelled emotion and actual worship, but at least it was good, and whole-hearted, and joyful, and well-meant, so I think that counts for something. Also, everybody sang. It was kind of mind-blowing. I have so much trouble getting anybody besides my parents to sing with me. (And, um, Dad tends to throw me off sometimes because he is sitting in the second or third row singing a really different melody and harmonising and throwing odd little bits in and, argh. I mean, it's kind of adorable, but it really throws me off. And sometimes people start singing a different melody or tempo than I am singing and that messes me up terrifically. But anyway.)
(Also I had this really vintagetastic new Goodwill dress, which made me a little happier than clothing probably ought to, although practically every single person in the car made fun of my green stockings at least once.)
I wrote two thousand three hundred or so words today, I think. I meant to go for another two hundred at least, but it was eleven o'clock, and I already wrote more than the Daily Quota, so if I keep that up I'll catch up by the end of the month, at least. I can't expect to write three thousand words every day from now on. (Also when I checked my word count I was at 22,222 words, which was so awesome that I had to stop there.) And, oh dear, how I hated most of what I wrote. There is a certain underlying problem, though, that caused most of the hating, which I may expound upon later. But there were about two hundred words, near the end, that I really liked, and after so many exhausted, trite metaphors and repetitive dialogue and my characterisations going bland and stereotyped and melodramatic, that felt good.
Let me rant for a minute.
- Writing helps me do better on the job. It keeps my mind active and my temperament cheerier.
- Thus far, writing has never, ever gotten in the way of me doing my job in any way.
- My job involves, at the moment, me making about one sale per hour. In between I have virtually nothing to do, except occasionally straighten calendars. Writing for five minutes at a time and then going round to make sure things are all right and making certain I am alert to any and all potential customer needs cannot possibly hinder this. I understand that I will get much, much busier -- someday? really? PLEASE? -- and of course I would not spend all sorts of time scribbling when I have lines of customers and people knocking things down and making messes.
- THIS IS DISCRIMINATION AGAINST NANOERS. CAN I SUE? [/flippant]
- Writing + books + bookstore employee. Do the math. It is of the good.
- I really, really hate wasted hours. Quite a lot of people will laugh at this because when I have a bad emo fit I spend quite a lot of time sulking about and doing nothing -- but really, few things make me feel worse than doing nothing for hours on end. When I go to work I feel very insignificant. I spend four hours standing around doing very little. I sell people calendars occasionally, and yes, I am earning money and gaining experience, but it feels so very -- pointless? -- in the end. That's coming off a bit strongly, I think -- what am I trying to say? Superfluous is the word I keep knocking up against. I sell people somewhat expensive things that they do not very much need. Certainly I may make some people happier by -- being pleasant towards them? Making things go more simply?
In better news, I was slated to lead worship all by me lonesome this morning and had scrapped together some songs -- all gospelly things that I enjoy playing and singing, because I am very tired of limp worship songs, but I was not exactly looking forward to it because I am Not Very Good at leading worship. So I was practising a bit, and then Jonathan got on the piano and we ended up jamming for a bit, which turned into impromptu-ly adding him to the roster. It was the best worship ever. My voice only did something funny once, the congregation was actually singing a lot, I managed to be slightly charismatic ("okay everybody, we're going to sing this song now!" and "all together now!" and "one more time!"), Jonathan sounded fantastic, I felt really involved in the music, and I wish I could clearly say that it was because I was worshipping, but I can't tell, really, between music-propelled emotion and actual worship, but at least it was good, and whole-hearted, and joyful, and well-meant, so I think that counts for something. Also, everybody sang. It was kind of mind-blowing. I have so much trouble getting anybody besides my parents to sing with me. (And, um, Dad tends to throw me off sometimes because he is sitting in the second or third row singing a really different melody and harmonising and throwing odd little bits in and, argh. I mean, it's kind of adorable, but it really throws me off. And sometimes people start singing a different melody or tempo than I am singing and that messes me up terrifically. But anyway.)
(Also I had this really vintagetastic new Goodwill dress, which made me a little happier than clothing probably ought to, although practically every single person in the car made fun of my green stockings at least once.)
I wrote two thousand three hundred or so words today, I think. I meant to go for another two hundred at least, but it was eleven o'clock, and I already wrote more than the Daily Quota, so if I keep that up I'll catch up by the end of the month, at least. I can't expect to write three thousand words every day from now on. (Also when I checked my word count I was at 22,222 words, which was so awesome that I had to stop there.) And, oh dear, how I hated most of what I wrote. There is a certain underlying problem, though, that caused most of the hating, which I may expound upon later. But there were about two hundred words, near the end, that I really liked, and after so many exhausted, trite metaphors and repetitive dialogue and my characterisations going bland and stereotyped and melodramatic, that felt good.
