omehow, I thought a writing job would be way more glamorous than it is. This is regularly painful. It’s like my brain is constantly being crushed by a giant vise.
I’m waiting for a grant decision to come back. I wrote the grant four months ago. It’s a huge grant, writing it was one of the most pressure-filled months of my life, and a decision still has not been made. It’s making me crazy from waiting. If we get the grant I’m a flipping work HERO – like, someone might hoist me onto their shoulders. If we don’t get it I can forget about a raise.
Forget a raise. I can forget about any friendly looks from my bosses. The failure will be a haunting one. I will not forget. They will all be sure I will not forget. Never mind that only a handful of these grants get awarded in the nation. I will be made to remember my failure.
Yes, my workplace is the type where I am personally responsible for decisions made by the federal government.
A year and a half ago, when I walked out of the meeting room where a panel of academics decided I was a Master of English. I distinctly recall thinking, “I’m done.”
I meant, I’m done with writing stupid, terribly long papers. I’m done waiting so dang LONG for arbitrary judgements about my work. It will never be like this ever again.
It turns out that unless I plan on teaching, this is my life.