working class

My work is getting me all-schizo, in a good way. Fun. I have to always keep in mind “voices” when I write. I am forced to actually put discipline in writing. My constant source of insecurity is the fact that I didn’t go to school (training) for this, but since this is something that I am passionate about, I am willing to go to great lengths to learn as much as I can. Oh, the things I do for this love of writing- I took a pay cut, I now commute in the smoggy metro and contend with a lot of rude people during rush hour. I know this won’t be the end of it, this constant adjustment, stretching of myself. I don different thinking hats- one minute, its party girl covering a fabulous event, and the next, serious news fit for front page. Work may not be perfect and ideal, but it’s reliable. It isn’t about feeling the love everyday- it is about sustenance, for even when after the glow of falling has waned, I will stick it out and I will choose to stay. That is something I cannot say about a job that I’m not in love with. I was interviewed in several multinational companies; a couple with posts that were connected to my training and HR background. In one, I did the initial interview, exam and the departmental interview all on the same day. I knew if I really wanted to, I would have gotten the job. Except, when I was talking to my potential boss about projects that I had done, I noticed I was telling her my story by rote. In a weird out-of-body kind way, I saw myself talking to her, all prim and proper in my suit, hands clasped on my lap. Just enough of a warm smile, slight nodding of the head. No sparks, no chemistry. Much like a blind date that bombed.Then, the exams. Logical, abstract reasoning and mathematical ability. Number series that required you of what came next after 8, 9, 12. How the hell should I know? I hate those exams, and I hate it even more when numbers and shapes start swimming on the test booklets. Good thing the proctors didn’t see my scratch sheets, or else they’d have seen my doodles. Still a lot like a blind date who insists on bringing you home. Prolonging the agony.In contrast, my interviews for the current job was full of laughter, some retelling of stories and I didn’t even have to take an exam. On the very day of my first and final interview, I got the job and a take home assignment. Now, here I am. Of course, I cannot write about clients here, one thing I promised myself. Common sense, even if I did have to sign a confidentiality agreement. I’m having fun learning. Being continents out of my comfort zone isn’t all that peachy fun, but there are moments. In events, I get all glammed up and prettified, then you’d see us scarfing down fishbols on the sidewalk, right before schmoozing with guests. Sarap.I will not complain about demanding clients; it doesn’t take a genius to realize they’re the reason we have the business. It will only give me more insight on human nature, and hey, more fodder for my future-book material. I will not whine about having to read and scan newspapers and magazines for client monitoring, I already love to read them anyway. It will just mean I will have extended my reading menu. A downside is the abuse I’ve been inflicting on my eyes, having to stare at the computer screen for hours and noticing a need to have my eyes checked. That, and pushing myself to turn out better articles, faster, so my editor will be happier. I don’t mind though. That silly smile I have plastered on my face after seeing my words on major dailies is more than enough. For now. I still want my byline.