I Work to Please Myself
I write, Therefore I Am
Passion and/or obsession
I Enjoy Almost Everything
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As I now have to spend so many hours of the day earning "my daily bread", I have come to enjoy it much more than the time spent "not at work".
I really don't have a clear idea of how much I am actually working, or not working. Could it be that I am always working? could it be that for me it is no longer "work" but some form of "pleasurable sacrifice"?
I currently work as an Editorial Director at Cambridge BrickHouse. This position keeps me active but firmly grounded. It has allowed me, among many things, to understand my place as a writer. It allows me to be in the shoes of those who publish works for others and allows me to understand the views of those who will invest in my words. It allows me to be grateful to those who turn a manuscript into a book. It also allows me to realize someone's dreams of being published and have enough grace and tact to not ask others to read "something I wrote" without first reading something of theirs and understanding fully the work that goes into this.
The work of an editor is humbling, dedicated, generous (because one works to polish and improve someone else's work).
My work as a writer is not free from ego, however. That vain little devil that jumps on us with hands held high and makes us feel a little like demigods for the simple fact of having created anything. however insignificant or transient it might be.
Whether I edit, translate or create literal works, I give myself wholly and in the best way possible. Only then can I feel pleasure.

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