I hate myself right now.
Not a desperate, self-loathing kind of hate- it’s more of an “ironic trombone” kind.
You see, I decided to trade my uber time-suck of a management job for something part-time in order to free myself up to write and blog and spout my personal irreverent form of rhetoric. This idea sounded good at the time, until I realized that it had been nearly fifteen years since my last job hunt and that I had technically already quit my job (my former boss said so. I asked him).
Now what I am left with is plenty of time not to write, but to search for my awesome new job that will not be an uber time-suck in disguise. So after a whole lot of hits and misses and a sketchy offer of a career in foot porn (my feet are adorable) this happened:
I discovered the Start-up Industry.
People, I love me some start-ups. I love everything about them. Anytime an individual applies passion, sacrifice and labor to their dream…baby, sign me up. I love the whole culture that surrounds start-ups; the energy, the enthusiasm, all that potential the creator just knows is there and the courage he or she musters simply to say, “I believe in myself and my ideas enough to try. I am worthy of the chance you take on me.” It’s the American dream at it’s finest. So why do I hate myself?
Because they aren’t my start-ups. They aren’t my dreams. Because I lack the courage to try.
I realized I made excuses for why I didn’t finish my second novel or didn’t make time to blog like I wanted or market my work as is always necessary. Yes, I had a demanding job and family, but more to the point, I lacked the courage to invest in myself. Instead I invested my time, passion, and energy elsewhere. The hardest part to admit is that I am no better off because of it. The proof of that thought is in my resume. Composing it felt like writing my own obituary; highlighting the accomplishments of a life gone by, extolling the virtues of someone who no longer existed. By the time I was finished I was wrecked.
But as is typical of me, I became sick of the sound of whining in my head and decided to adopt an entrepreneurial (thank you, spell check) spirit of my own. I decided not to look at my resume as an obituary, but as a high school graduation speech instead; a summary of what I’ve accomplished as well as what I am capable of accomplishing in the future, should someone decide to take a chance on me. I decided to invest my time equally in the job market as well as the publishing world. I realize the two won’t always be in balance, and I will have to sacrifice a bit here and there to make it all work, but I think it is finally time for me to take a chance on myself.
And if it doesn’t work out, I still have my feet.
I am taking a rare free moment to honor the birthday of a truly great man and even greater Canadian;
Justin Beiber Archon’s Den!
As a resident of the Canadian Riviera (better known as “New England”) I live in awe of a country that possesses badass versions of all the things we admire ourselves for- moose, maple syrup, hockey, beer, WINTER.
We, as New Englanders, have developed a kind of a hero worship for Canadians because of it- sort of like the kid who thinks he’s good at baseball, but knows for a fact his big brother IS.
This is how I feel about my friend, Archon. He’s every bit the wordsmith and tale-teller I humbly attempt to be- not to mention that he has a heart the size of Canada itself.
Besides, anyone from the same country that gave us SCtv and RUSH isn’t going to be a hoser, eh?
For those of you who have yet to experience this curmudgeonly cunning linguist, click on the Archon-ic moose below for a sampling of one of the cleverest minds the Great White North has to offer. Until then…