Today, in my ten-plus hour work day, I had nine meetings. I'm ready to kill myself. As Daffy Duck says, "Just shoot me now!" Patti and I went to dinner at 6pm, and of course, we talked about work. I don't know if we know anything else anymore. We both almost fell asleep at the table.
I never said I wanted to be this important. (Or is that I never wanted to be this stupid, ridiculous, incompetent, dreary, pushy, bitchy... tired.) I'm too old for this sh*t.
In a previous life time, ten or so years ago, or more, I could put in ten-plus hours a day, and not really feel it because I was active, doing stuff. Real stuff. Productive stuff. What is it about meetings that drains the life out of a person?
Sad thing is that it's interfering with my editing. But the good thing is that it has spun up my imagination. After saying and doing the same thing over and over again, for hours and days on end, I get scary thoughts. Images of mass destruction. Of pinching people's heads off. Of coming to work with a shotgun. Or even better a machete. I never really was a gun person. Baseball bats are more my style.
And those things feed my writing. If you've read some of my short stories, you'd understand. I can get Stephen-King-scary when I write. [Trust me, it's just an outlet... so that I don't do those thing.] In my short stories, someone always dies, in a bizarre way. Fortunately, I can't sustain it. So no Stephen King novels. [I never want the inside of my head to be that scary of a place.] But maybe I'll post a couple of my short stuff here.
With that said, I just checked my work mail (at 9pm), and I have two more meetings added to my schedule for this week, added since I checked at 8pm.