I’ve been hired to write two articles each month. My instructions are to neither write about my personal life, nor write about a specific current event. Nevertheless, the articles should be engaging, of an editorial nature, and get immediate positive feedback. Or else, I’m fired.
This is what I was dreaming. I woke up frantic for the feel of the keyboard beneath my fingers. The instructions came from a stern female voice, yet I knew each word and spoke along with her. Our voices mingled, me speaking in first person, she in second. It was almost musical.
Last Wednesday I was laid off from a job I began January 7, 2014. My medical benefits kicked in October 1, and from there business began to slide down hill. The phones stopped ringing altogether during the month of December. The company can no longer afford extra office staff—that’s me. As soon as I got through traffic to my home I filed for unemployment and contacted a previous supervisor to ask for any work she had available. I’ve heard nothing from either application.
I have been outwardly calm, reassuring hubby that we have plenty of money to last through the end of the month. He didn’t have the heart to ask me, “what about March?” And I haven’t had the heart to broach the topic.
So, I’m dreaming about unlikely writing jobs.
Which, of course, brings up countless insecurities and internal arguments. I cleaned my oven Thursday. Paid bills Friday. Wrote a poem Saturday. Last night I set the alarm to wake me at 5:30 a.m. so I could walk the pup and take a shower just as if I were preparing for a work day. Now all I want to do is try to tackle this ridiculous work assignment. Pressure is mounting. I’ve never written an editorial piece in my life.