Dread is not called for here. It’s only Tuesday, and the week is up after today. This is a holiday week, a happy occasion, so be happy.
Sit awhile. Listen to the Dresden Dolls. Sip your mocha. Cover your head with the scarf so it feels like no one in the whole Starbucks can see you (that’s called magic, folks). Other people’s career aspirations have nothing whatsoever to do with your own. It doesn’t matter who brags about their window office; you’re floating above it all, windowless, so let them speak their Greek.
This is your day job. It is not your career. Artists have day jobs all over the city and at least yours doesn’t involve balancing stacks of plates, since you’re such a terrible klutz. See? If you drop a book it doesn’t shatter.
As a kid when forced to spend those endlessly long days at the factory, watching your parents work, you had a favorite game called “Office.” Remember? You would form the shipping cartons into walls and use old rusted desks and chairs with broken backs to arrange your own department, at which you did… something indefinable. You stamped pages, scrawled signatures for no reason, answered dead telephones, photocopied reams of your face. This was fun at the time, playing grown-up, and now here you are doing just that. You have a desk! You have walls, and they’re not made of cardboard! Your phone works! Your signature counts for something! Even though you do not spend hours photocopying the myriad expressions possible on your own smushed face I know there is a tiny itty-bitty part of you that remembers the days of playing “Office” and thinks it funny that you’re there at all, business cards and everything, like an impostor.
Fun, huh? Yeah, that’s the spirit. Besides, it’s still early and you don’t have to leave for the actual office for over an hour. Write your story… while you still can.