The Joy of Work

Emotionally speaking, my job is a very difficult one. I put myself under a lot of pressure. If I haven't got two stories done by the end of the day, I feel badly. If I spell something wrong and editorial doesn't find it, I feel worse. If editorial puts its own mistakes in, I am incandescent with rage. 

There is also the challenge of getting the story right. This is particularly difficult now, when the mainstream news (especially about Covid-19) changes so fast and contradicts itself so often, you would think we were living in Orwell's Oceana.  I have contradictory stories and voices and slogans coming at me all the time. That would be fine if I cared only for a narrative and not about truth, but like everyone else at work, I'm a believing Christian and truth is a big deal. Truth is the only deal. 

Then there's the disapproval of wider society. On Facebook a woman with whom I went to (Catholic) high school responded to one of my posts with "Pro-lifers don't care about children after they're born." This was so hackneyed and obviously wrong that I was stunned. In the end I wrote back "Do you know any pro-lifers besides me? Do you think I don't care about children?"  

Then there was the weird moment when I clicked on Mark Shea's Twitter handle and discovered he had blocked me. As far as I know, I have never spoken, let alone written, badly about Mark Shea in my entire life. Au contraire. I've been blocked by someone else at Patheos, too, and I really don't know why. 

I've been trying to submit two-to-three stories a day for over three years, though B.A.'s illnesses, hospitalisations, surgeries, radiotherapy, Covid-19 furlough, and now Covid-19 redundancy. When the fire system in the Historical House exploded, and we had to leave, I submitted stories from wherever we slept. When we are told we weren't coming back, and B.A. was told he needed radiotherapy, I submitted stories and negotiated to purchase a home at the same time. Meanwhile, I get as much annual leave as the average American or Canadian worker gets. All around me the British get 28 days off, plus public holidays. Twenty-eight days. Can you even imagine?

Anyway, I had a Very Bad Day a week ago, and it was so bad, it stopped the two-to-three-a-day train in its tracks. It was so bad, I agreed to call a therapist. It was so bad, I'm not going to tell you about it. I have been miserable. I'm miserable because I just want to write my two-to-three stories and feel good about it afterwards. 

However, I spent yesterday reading an interesting book for review, and then I interviewed its very clever author. I was so wrapped up in our conversation, that afterwards I felt great. I still hadn't submitted anything, but I felt so much better. The joy of work is a wonderful joy. It's one of the best joys. Usually it keeps me going.