"Don't Give Up The Day Job"
Fuck that shit.
Yes, today I handed in my resignation. Am I off my trolley? Possibly. Am I naively idealistic about the prospect of being a full-time writer? Not at all. I have a cunning plan, you see.
Actually, I have a few cunning plans. However, the ones which involve nailing company directors to crucifixes all along the road from London to Glasgow, well, those ones have been put on the back-burner for now. There are other options, after all, than going postal. Granted, in the new feudalism of waged serfs and lords of industry, going postal is quite clearly the most rational response (or the only rational response perhaps... in contrast to the cultural orthodoxy of weekend binge drinking and water cooler gossip, you know, it does actually require conscious thought). But sometimes we do have to let our hearts rule our heads and say, no.
No, I will not murder the firstborn of my managing director. No, I will not paper my living room with the skins of team leaders. No, I will not spear the heads of sales managers on rusted spikes outside my front door. No. Because that's just narcissistic rage talking. That's a wish-fulfilment power-fantasy, the dark and sociopathic logic of the Jungian shadow, sullen, petulant and sadistic. OK, so it may still be the only rational response to our current politico-economic environment, like the simple survival mechanism of the cornered rat, but, well, the problem is I have this small sentimental attachment to other human beings, this annoying little thing called empathy. It's a real fucking nuisance but I find I just can't quite dissociate myself from the rest of humanity, not enough to treat these corporate fuckers with the remorseless antipathy they deserve and indeed demand.
Bastard. It was so much easier to dream of chaos and slaughter when I was seventeen and crazy.
So having reviewed and dismissed all those cunning plans involving broken fingers, dead pets and mock executions, I've come up with a cunning plan that might just work. I quit. Ah, sweet zephyrs of freedom. O shining sunbeams of sanity. I've got my first installment of my advance due sometime within the next two weeks and with enough dosh in the bank to see me through for a good wee while, I can afford to take back the slack. I know my rate of production, so I know that sooner or later I'll have to go back to work but, fuck it, that's what contracting's all about: nice 3-6 month contracts where you don't have to deal with the same shit from the same people for any longer than is absolutely necessary. Three years VB.Net experience, full project lifecycle, ya de ya. I reckon I should be able to earn more in six months contracting than I'd make in a year at my current job. If not, well, I'll burn that bridge when I come to it. Stick the dynamite to it, flash a grin at Clint and light the fuse with the stub of my cheroot.
For now I dance! dance! and drink to delirium on absinthe, port and Guinness! Here's to three months notice! Here's to freedom by Christmas! To clubbing on a school night! To days spent rolling on the floor with my doggie! To 48 hour writing sessions! And to not being sent to fucking Pakistan for three weeks because honestly, no matter what those silly-billies at the Foreign Office say, it's not a serious threat of kidnap and decapitation. Well, we wouldn't send you if we thought it was dangerous.
The fuck you would, you psychopathic motherfuckers. Don't give up the day job?
Fuck that shit.
Yes, today I handed in my resignation. Am I off my trolley? Possibly. Am I naively idealistic about the prospect of being a full-time writer? Not at all. I have a cunning plan, you see.
Actually, I have a few cunning plans. However, the ones which involve nailing company directors to crucifixes all along the road from London to Glasgow, well, those ones have been put on the back-burner for now. There are other options, after all, than going postal. Granted, in the new feudalism of waged serfs and lords of industry, going postal is quite clearly the most rational response (or the only rational response perhaps... in contrast to the cultural orthodoxy of weekend binge drinking and water cooler gossip, you know, it does actually require conscious thought). But sometimes we do have to let our hearts rule our heads and say, no.
No, I will not murder the firstborn of my managing director. No, I will not paper my living room with the skins of team leaders. No, I will not spear the heads of sales managers on rusted spikes outside my front door. No. Because that's just narcissistic rage talking. That's a wish-fulfilment power-fantasy, the dark and sociopathic logic of the Jungian shadow, sullen, petulant and sadistic. OK, so it may still be the only rational response to our current politico-economic environment, like the simple survival mechanism of the cornered rat, but, well, the problem is I have this small sentimental attachment to other human beings, this annoying little thing called empathy. It's a real fucking nuisance but I find I just can't quite dissociate myself from the rest of humanity, not enough to treat these corporate fuckers with the remorseless antipathy they deserve and indeed demand.
Bastard. It was so much easier to dream of chaos and slaughter when I was seventeen and crazy.
So having reviewed and dismissed all those cunning plans involving broken fingers, dead pets and mock executions, I've come up with a cunning plan that might just work. I quit. Ah, sweet zephyrs of freedom. O shining sunbeams of sanity. I've got my first installment of my advance due sometime within the next two weeks and with enough dosh in the bank to see me through for a good wee while, I can afford to take back the slack. I know my rate of production, so I know that sooner or later I'll have to go back to work but, fuck it, that's what contracting's all about: nice 3-6 month contracts where you don't have to deal with the same shit from the same people for any longer than is absolutely necessary. Three years VB.Net experience, full project lifecycle, ya de ya. I reckon I should be able to earn more in six months contracting than I'd make in a year at my current job. If not, well, I'll burn that bridge when I come to it. Stick the dynamite to it, flash a grin at Clint and light the fuse with the stub of my cheroot.
For now I dance! dance! and drink to delirium on absinthe, port and Guinness! Here's to three months notice! Here's to freedom by Christmas! To clubbing on a school night! To days spent rolling on the floor with my doggie! To 48 hour writing sessions! And to not being sent to fucking Pakistan for three weeks because honestly, no matter what those silly-billies at the Foreign Office say, it's not a serious threat of kidnap and decapitation. Well, we wouldn't send you if we thought it was dangerous.
The fuck you would, you psychopathic motherfuckers. Don't give up the day job?
Fuck that shit.
Labels: Adventures of a Scribbler
posted by Hal Duncan | 12:53 pm
1 Comments:
Amen. Probably.
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