Day Job
One of the many joys of where my writing is at presently is being able to go each day to my day job and work instead of writing. *Please note the dripping sarcasm.*
I actually do like my job. It is difficult, emotionally draining, and the pay is terrible. Sounds incredible, right? I wonder why they don’t ask me to work on hiring and marketing materials. A mystery, to be sure. But I do actually like it. I get to spend my days working to make my community safer and trying to make a difference in the lives of youths who many would rather not deal with. It’s exhausting, but worth it.
It is not a creative endeavor. It does not feed that core part of me who is a creative. In some ways it actually sucks the creativity from my soul, drawing every ounce into the blackest abyss. Okay, maybe too dramatic. It is not a creative activity. It requires heart, intelligence, hard work, quick thinking, and patience. And, as I wrote, it is work that matters. It matters to me. It impacts lives directly.
That lack of creativity is not to say the way I do the job is not creative. I sometimes take a unique approach, seeking what will work in the moment.
I was working with a youth about two years ago. He was in the juvenile detention center and facing some very serious charges. He was having a tough day and I went to his unit to speak with him. He didn’t want to talk and for whatever reason the detention center staff had me talking to him through a door. HIs face was in the small, glass, window and he wasn’t saying anything. He was barely responding, but he stayed by the door. I tried a variety of very social-worky approaches to break through. That means I pestered him. Nothing worked.
He randomly raised his hand and placed it against the glass.
I responded with, “Oh, are we doing the hand against the glass thing?”
He looked up at me. I grinned an overly eager grin. He broke. Shaking his head, he laughed. Then he began to speak.
Two years later, I visited him in the City Justice Center. Through that glass partition and into a very cliche phone I spoke with him about another serious case, on top of the previous one. He was quiet. I placed my hand against the glass and asked, with a straight face, “Do we need to do the hand against the glass thing?”
He looked up at me. Disbelief registered on his face. Then he smiled. He declined my offer of a precious moment. He did, however, smile and admit he remembered that day from two years prior when I broke out that gem to get him to talk.
Who needs evidence-based practice when you have goofy sarcasm?
So, I do bring some creativity to the work. I think my clients appreciate it, even if my boss does not.
My point, besides making sure I will never be labeled a social worker, to get back to it; is how my day job interferes with my writing time. For some reason, my boss wants me to work when I am at work. The nerve. I intend to write when I get home more often than I actually do. Despite high intentions, I often get home tired, somewhat drained, and looking for a respite for this introverted soul from a day of human interaction.
When I do manage to scrape together the emotional energy to write it is nice to feel to flow of the work. It feeds that introverted, creative, somewhat odd, soul of mine to make up worlds, people, interactions, and such. The “and such” is often where the magic exists.
It’s about time to eat dinner. Two dogs are inching closer to me on the couch, feeling their internal clocks chime out the dinner hour. One just gave up on staring at me, nose inches from my face. Now she is shunning me, I think. She doesn’t realize how cute a pouting dog is.
For now, I will wrap up this post. Post dinner I will pull the laptop back out and see just how much energy and focus I can muster. I have characters waiting for their stories to be told. I can feel them staring at me as well.