It’s four-nil, and my team is getting heavily beat. Naturally, this makes me unhappy. I opened a beer, took one sip, and then left it. My first drop of alcohol in weeks. I gave it up; it wasn’t doing me any favours. Not since I had the shit kicked out of me and saw my social life disappear as a result. That is, I gave it up after relying on it to be a crutch for far too long. I did the alcoholic writer thing that seems to be popular. Didn’t work. That’s the problem with small, one-pub towns – if you stop going to said pub, you have no other option than to become a hermit. This is what I am; sitting in my cave, watching the footy online. Which isn’t making me happy.
Perhaps afterwards I’ll attempt to gather my thoughts; go sit in the park just across the road, watch people play tennis and read some more of the Murakami I have going on. Try to calm myself, push all the crap from my mind. Sit for half an hour or so; all I can tolerate in this heat. It’s a beautiful day by anyone’s standards; pushing 30C, clear blue sky and even the Moon popping his head out to see what’s going on. Hopefully it’s a little cooler now though. Then I’ll head to the shop, buy some junk food to make me feel better and return to my cave to slay digital dragons. I should clean up, but that can wait until tomorrow.
This is the life of the hermit, one living a thousand miles from home. Coasting through time, day-to-day; dangerously unworried about what might happen in the future. No grand plans to aspire to; no direction. Que sera, sera; as the fans are singing in the crowd. The whistle goes, sounding more like it’s the full-time whistle on any potential I may have had than the end of a football match. Something I also don’t seem concerned about. Once I had grand dreams of being a writer, professionally, but now I can’t ever see myself doing it as a full-time job.
You see, I don’t think I’m suited to it. I don’t write every day, which the people I read online seem to think is the single most important thing to do if one wants to be a professional writer. I write when it comes to me, just like this piece you’re reading right now. I get an idea, I write it down. No ideas, no writing. No staring at a blank page or screen for hours on end, resulting in nothing but frustration. I would also like to think that when I do write something, it has substance. I don’t believe writing (and posting online) twenty, thirty pieces daily in order to validate myself as a writer. I’d rather write one decent piece than a hundred lesser.
The main reason I feel this way is that I love my job. Truly. I never thought I would be a teacher, but it’s become almost the perfect fit for my personality. Sure, the kids can be little shits now and then, but they’re supposed to be – they’re kids. I love the freedom my job has to do what I do; learn my craft through practice rather than the in-class theory a university claims to be able to give you. The problem being that without that piece of paper, my options are extremely limited. I know for a fact that I am a better teacher than 90% of others out there – I have that supreme belief in myself (I have to in order to survive in this mercenary world of ESL), but am often judged (negatively) on my lack of ‘education’. This riles me. But it’s also something I have to do something about.
Which leaves me with a dilemma. Do I stay here, in the perfect job, or do I go back to school in order to better myself, knowing that I may never have a job like this again, but will be able to command a higher salary and have more options available to me? I don’t desire the house-car-other-possessions kind of life that most lead. But I do desire a future. I have a year or so to decide. Come the end of this contract in June 2013, life will change, or it won’t.
Right now I can’t be bothered to think about it. Suggestions, please.