Addendum

I apologize for the insufferably whiny nature of last night's post. I've been doing this kind of thing since the days of OpenDiary; I thought I'd learned by now that nobody likes blogs that exist solely to convey how much pity their authors deserve.

I did not start Entry Level Jane to complain about my lot in life. This blog is meant to be a record of my experiences, and unfortunately for you, world, last night I was experiencing a self-indulgent sulk.

You are cordially invited to Jane D'oh!'s pity party.

I'm doing retail for the time being; like I said, the devil I know. I slipped back into the old phrases and cadences with terrifying ease.

It's not the worst job I've ever had-- heck, it's not the worst retail job I've ever had-- but it just left me feeling empty. As if I needed any more evidence that not so deep below the surface lurks a selfish, nasty, spoiled little bourgeois brat. When I hit a pocket of idealism, I will tell you that any job done with integrity is a worthwhile* job, and what I do to make money does not define who I am as a person. But when I'm pretending to be the authority on stuff people don't really need, stuff I honestly don't care about, so excruciatingly careful to be polite that I slip "please" or "sorry" into every sentence, I've never been further from my ideals. And I may be doing this job to the best of my ability, but I can't find the integrity anywhere.


* With the exception of, like, Nazis. Work with me here.

$50 OBO

The call center job didn't pan out. By that, I mean that the only way it could have been worse would be if I had to pay them for the privilege of doing the job. I have made the risky decision that it would be better to really throw myself into applying for more jobs than filling my time with an occupation that left me feeling listless and miserable, and having less time to look for something better. I have two interviews lined up for the end of the week, both for retail sales (aka The Devil I Know).

I was filling out an application at a restaurant today. The manager asked if I had any experience with the restaurant industry. When I told her no, she responded, "Well, you'll really have to sell your personality then." What a distasteful phrase, "sell your personality." And I do realize marketing one's skills and achievements is a necessary part of finding a job, I just wish it was less reminiscent of prostitution.

I find the process of selling myself to be bewildering. Extracting a passable cover letter from the neurotic, second-guessing labyrinth that is my mind was incredibly difficult, and it is specifically for jobs in the non-profit field. I am at a loss when it comes to, say, applying for a receptionist job. I believe it's something I could do, but what do I say? "I'm very good at answering the phone, and my handwriting is legible, so you would have no problem reading the messages I would take." I'm being facetious, of course, but when I try to come up with something write to Employer X to separate myself from the pack, I consistently come up short.

O. Henry was a bank teller

While doing my daily perusal of job posting sites, I found an entry-level nonprofit position, which felt a little like coming across a 1965 silver dime (except I can't sell the job posting to a collector for $9000+. What a sad life I lead). A friend of mine also put in a good word for me with a few of her friends who are managers at local restaurants, so hopefully I'll be bossing around volunteers or busing around dirty dishes relatively soon.

I've been thinking lately about the dreaded Day Job. I write, I act, I help to run a con-- not things that usually pay the bills. And it hurts, a little; I wish I could forge my life completely on my own terms, and not have to worry about whether or not my manager thinks I'm a team player.

However, making your art your day job is problematic. Your dreams become product, your audience becomes a customer base. There has to be a compromise between the artist's vision and what the audience is willing to consume (and what the producer/publishing house/venue is willing to put their name on). I'm not saying that full-time professional artists lack integrity, but there is the lack of the ability to say to a largely critical public, "Go fuck yourself, I don't need you" without the likelihood of completely ruining everything you've built up.

Then there's the issue of fame. How many people have to approve of what you do before you're satisfied that it's successful? I seem to recall reading something that Stephen King wrote (I think it's in On Writing) where he says that he writes primarily for his wife Tabitha, but I'm sure the millions of fans are a nice fringe benefit (and have some sway over his creative process).

It is so desirable, so lovely, to have what you do mean something, really mean something, to someone you've never met. And yet to let something you've created float off into the unknown fog of the minds of other people is a scary prospect, and I imagine requires a healthy lack of ego. Nobody is ever going to see what you've made in the same way that you have, and you're certainly not going to have more than a ten page introduction or an occasional magazine interview to explain to the world that your protagonist is based on a dream you had where the president was a closeted homosexual and this is the kind of person you imagine his press secretary would be, even though the novel takes place in Kyoto during the Tokugawa shogunate. When I would write critical essays for the English courses I took in college, I often imagined the author standing next to me, reading over my shoulder. More often than not, their reaction was along the lines of, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

It still doesn't change the pit I feel in my stomach when filling out applications for retail stores and restaurants, but at least we can all be miserable together.