A lousy day reminds me why I bother writing.

Good evening.

I had a really, really lousy day at work.  The woman I've been blogging about over at It can Only Happen to Sarah finally broke my spirit.  Here's how it went:

Last night she lost the key to the office. This is a big deal since 1) Only four of us have a key for the office  2)  she's the one who closes up at night and 3)  No one else lives close to the office, except for one of the managers who had to have facial surgery early this morning to fix his broken nose.

From about 7 Pm until about 10Pm last night, she then contacted, harrassed, annoyed, shouted at, and was snippy to pretty much everyone in the company, including the landlord, who told her, no, he was NOT going to drive 35 miles back to the office to lock a door for her when it was her responsibility to lock the darn thing.  That's when she insulted the landlord...who came over this morning and barked in my general direction.

My boss was not amused.  The minute she showed up late for work  (she's late every single day of her life...and that's just the tip of the iceburg with her) he hauled her into his office and for 78 minutes they shouted at each other. 

I work in a showroom.  Customers come in to look at our wares.  The walls aren' t that thick.

This is not the first time they've had this sort of throw down.  Every couple of months he has to haul her in to his office for a shouting match.  And every single time they walk out all smiles, all but singing "Kum by ya."  Those of is in the office this morning, however, thought for sure would be the end of her sloppy, messy, embarrassing reign of terror she wreaks over the office.

Not so.

Again they emerged, and this time it really sounded like she'd managed to some how make him believe HE was the one who was wrong.

As Forrest Gump once said, "Sometimes there just aren't enough rocks."

The rest of the day I spent avoiding both of them, which is hard since I sit at the front desk right between their two offices.  All I could think about was one thing:  All I want to do is go home and write my book.

When I tell people I write, and I know you face this too, you will some vague nods, some feigned interest, perhaps a mocking question or two.  Writing is one of those things no one really understands.  It's not cross stitch.  It's not jogging.  There may never be an end result that anyone can see. (want to see the end result of my work?  click here )


What I'm saying is...does anyone ever ask us why?  Why do we write?  Because if they did, I'm sure I can speak for many of us when I say, "We write to escape.  We write because we have something to say, a story to tell.  We write because we want our name to be remembered in some small way.  We write because we daydream in bright colors and want to share that with others."

It's my happy place.

Today I write to escape.  I'm writing about a former figure skater and a former hockey player because they aren't my boss and the idiot I work with.  I'm writing a story set in Nashville because I once spent the very best Valentine's Day weekend there and frankly, Wisconsin in March bites.  I'm writing much of the story set in a Waffle House because my house is a mess, half my family is vegetarian, my oldest doesnt' talk to me much, and I really, really, really want a piece of bacon brought to me by a happy woman named Tina.

Today I write because it gives me a reason to drink wine on a Thursday night.

Today I write because being in my own skin is not a great place to be, and I want very much to be someone, somewhere else.

Some might wonder why I bother.  It's not like my job won't stink again tomorrow.  The book I'm working on, maybe ten people will read it, and that will be after I've worked, toiled, and promoted myself to death.  Why bother?

For me, it might what keeps me moving forward each day, it might be the thing that gets me out of bed.

Why are you writing?  I'd love to hear about it.