Freeeeeedom!

I've shed my shackles of temping-dom.

And once I come back from Ottawa this weekend, I'll be free. Free. Freeeeeeeeeeeee!

Must keep focus, and if I can't actually exude genuine confidence, I'll fake it as well as I possibly can. Ideally, I'd fake it so well that i even believe it myself. Believe in myself.

Ye gods. Affirmations. I might as well hose myself down and french-kiss the hydro wires now. Yikes.

So be it...

Well, my first big suckfit when confronted with rejection is over and done with.
Granted, I was kind of having "a week" -- one of those ones where you just feel crappy about yourself in general. The kind where you're lying curled up like a little invertebrate on the ground feeling somewhat used and abused and whammo! Someone kicks you hard in the cooch.

So you'll have to forgive my excessive reaction. It was just the icing on top of a cake made of poo.

However, the rejection has taught me something -- I have, against all expectations, survived. I truly half-expected to be blown away like a not-so-resilient leaf. I still want to write, even if my faith is a wee bit shaken. (Not stirred.) I never sold myself as the best writer who's ever lived. I never claimed that my little penchant for typing silly little things on a computer was talent divine, or even a gift from the gods.

So now, there's only one thing to do. Put the next foot forward and wait for the next gust of wind. Collect more of those miserable little letters and pad my ass with them... until maybe one day, falling down won't hurt quite as much.

Having neat friends makes a bit of a difference, though.
They're the stuff that makes the world a little shinier than it might otherwise appear.

The rejection begins...

Finally heard back re: my romance manuscript. As suspected, they said no. Which is pretty damn insulting, given the amount of excessively shitty writing they publish.

Which makes me wonder -- if the Publishers Of Crap don't want my writing, who will? I'm not even on par with bored housewives who suddenly pick up pen and write trite stories about sweet, two-dimensional blond-haired women and tall, macho assholes.

What a monstrous waste of time. What a monstrous waste of effort.
Why did I even think I could write? What magical button in my head clicked on and was able to convince the rest of me that I could actually do this for a living? God, I don't have enough armour for this.

It's a sunny, sunny day.
I feel like crawling into the oven with an armful of aerosol cans.

From the unlikeliest of place....

When you eschew a normal, nine-to-five office job in favour of writing from home (or at least, when you're not whoring yourself out at a temp job several days per week), sometimes support comes from the places you least expect.

In my case -- while I have support from my friends and partner -- I'm always delighted when I take a cab home and end up shooting the shit with my taxi driver. Nine times out of ten, they're working hard so they can support family and/or head back to their country of origin... usually during the winter months. They always seem surprised that I live in Little India, that I love it, and yes, I have eaten at Lahore Tikka more times than I care to count.

Even more, they seem delighted that I'm passing over the opportunity to make a ton of cash in order to pursue a life of poverty and satisfied happiness.

When this happens, these nice men never fail to reassure me that yes, I am making the right decision. That money isn't the most important thing, and that travel and happiness should take precedence over obsessing about my income. That North America has a strange attitude towards income vs. happiness. And frankly, they don't understand it.

The prevailing attitude is "work hard when you can... and then enjoy life." It's not about martyrdom, seeing who works longer hours, or whose company exploits them in the most interesting ways. It's about ensuring that life is full of interesting things... and if you miss them -- or purposely avoid them, as is the case for some folks -- then you're missing out on the very things that make life worthwhile.

It sounds funny, but it's like finding kindred spirits while you're heading home. Sure, it's entirely possible the cab drivers are simply doing their job. But when you're in front of your home and chewing the fat for a good 15-20 minutes, there's an entirely good possibility that they might be sincere.

And I think far too many people are inclined to ignore the possibility that these drivers have a far healthier -- and happier -- view of life than most miserable working folk. So next time you're sitting in a taxi waiting to get home, keep this in mind: the man driving home you home likely has a better grasp of life than you.

Sometimes, it pays to listen once in a while. And when is the last time your cab driver took the time to introduce themselves to you?

Ah, poop

This is the day I've been dreading since spring.

October is nice, and Halloween is always very entertaining (even when headache strikes).

But I hate November first. All I can see in front of me for the next five months is grey clouds, icy breath, snow, slush, ice and misery. There's no turning back -- and even in Toronto, a Canadian winter can be a dreary thing.

My grandfather has tentatively offered me the use of his condo in Florida early next year. I think I may need to take advantage of it. The prospect of yet another uninterrupted Canadian winter makes my soul shrivel up and hide in the warmest, darkest place it can find.