Hiatus Island

I’d love to say that I’ve been using my hiatus from blogging wisely, but unfortunately I don’t believe I can claim that to be true.  Ever since I went on hiatus, life went wild with busy-ness.  So much so that I feel as though I haven’t had a moment to myself lately.

In fact, the primary reason I’m writing this right here and now is that my brain began freaking out not so long ago regarding the complete and utter lack of down-time that I just had to separate from everything I’m required to be doing at this exact moment.

My brain has officially broken.

And the sad part is. . . revising my manuscripts was not the cause, as I haven’t had a single moment in the last month (or however long) to even look at them.  That could, quite possibly, be the worst part of the whole thing.  These books I’ve been writing have been my escape, my way of dreaming that I could get away from the corporate occupation that I feel eating away at my very sanity.  And I haven’t even had a moment to peek at them.

So, today, after multiple pointless conversations in which I have tried to convince people that they are not attacking their issues accurately, efficiently, or anywhere nearly as comprehensively as they expect. . . I had to give in to my brain’s screams to take a friggin’ break.

So, I did take a break. . . it didn’t really work.  I stepped away from my computer, focused on some other tasks (unfortunately still not manuscript related, as broken brain is not the way to approach writing).  Those didn’t help.  I turned to other options (i.e. turning my brain off) by staring at a wall for a bit.  The brain wouldn’t stop rolling about wondering how to get out of this mess of ineffective business strategies.

I opened this page, considering writing, but unable to think of anything to write about other than this stupid rant about how inane my work-life has truly become.  And so, after about an hour of trying to avoid writing this. . . I have given in and decided to use this space as a spot to rant about how incredibly idiotic things have become in my employment.

And I don’t know what to do about it. . .

I want to get back to writing.  Somehow I have to find a way to shut off the part of my brain that wants to connect writing to an escape from my job.  Because, when I actually find the time to write, I find the background processes focusing on how writing could cure the occupational woes my brain suffers from.  I don’t want that.  I just want to write, create, revise.  Sure, I’ve love to actually have a burgeoning career as a writer, it’s the reason I have spent so much time and energy trying to convince agents to listen to what I have to say.

That task, however, has proven to be even more frustrating than my actual job, and therefore something I care very little to pursue to any great degree any further.  (Meaning. . . I will probably continue to query agents, but it shall never again be the focus of my life.)

The really dumb part of this whole situation is that I believe I would be much less frustrated with my job if I wasn’t stuck dealing with amateurs who believe they are professionals.  I find myself all too often being used as the solution for a problem they see, however, when I offer better solutions, they don’t want to hear it, they just want to use me in the way they see fit.  I may be awesome, but sometimes there’s just a better way.  And if you already believe I can be the solution to your problem, maybe you should believe me when I say that there is a better one available.

Or, when I tell you that there are downfalls to the process you wish to pursue, you should actually take a close look at the problems before telling me that they aren’t going to be a problem (only to tell me in a matter of weeks after completion that they are, indeed, a problem).

I’m bitching. . I know.  But I need the outlet.  I can’t take this stupid position I’m in where I’m seen as the person who can fix things, but not trusted to know what should be done to fix them.  Or. . . not given the necessary resources to fix them effectively. . . Or, you know, just hidden in a corner so I don’t have to interface directly with the idiots.

I don’t know. . . I’m tired, another summer is ending without me feeling like I’ve used it appropriately, and I got older last week.  These are depressing times.  They shouldn’t be, but they are.

I just want to go outside with my children and run around in circles for a few hours.  Instead. . . I should probably go downstairs and vacuum.  Of course, not until after I complete this schedule correction that I was told would never be necessary, but occurs on at least a weekly basis.


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