i’d tried to make it work for the past year, almost. and it wasn’t even because i liked the job, particularly, because i didn’t. it was the people, really, that kept me there,* rearranging my schedule this way and that, cutting my hours, whatever i could to make enough time to write while working forty hours a week at fourteen each. more power to ‘ya, if you can, but it just isn’t me.
struggled with the on and off of that caged animal feeling, the disappointment of my string of false starts and hard stops that comprise the meager body of work i have to show for last year. bukowski had the post office and i had the call center. and no, i sure as heck am not likening myself to him, but i will say we both got trashed by a professor at city college in l.a., okay?
last day, though, was along about a week ago, thanks to the love of a good woman. love again, writing again. a new beginning, picking up where my false starts left off: researching for my next long piece, the next edition of the fairytale, writing regularly on medium.
i hope you’ll want to hear what i have to say.