Working since I was 19 years I have long since concluded that I have a strong, unwavering dislike for business. Business is often a cold, egotistical establishment which often asserts its importance to the point of absurdity. Business is cruel. All that matters are the absolute correct calculations and procedures. Those involved in business (I mean those who own great corporations, or managers who live for their job) are its minions. They are loyal, faithful to a fault. I would not say this had I never seen it firsthand.
Now that I've said it, suffice to say that I've always had personal issues. My parents worked throughout my childhood-my mother worked when she did not need to. So growing up I realized that some people work to escape home or whatever other personal situations they'd rather not deal with. My father was obsessed with work. He enjoyed it. But he was never satisfied with what he had, be it a stable job or a good income, in spite of where he had to live. Business was first for him. I recall at one point in his life (he was a sales manager, BTW) he studied mind control. Yeah, you read that right. MIND CONTROL. Scary? Pfffp. If only you'd been there. He'd listen to these tapes... or records, at the time they were records. They were all about 'suggestive selling' and 'presumptuous closing' (making the sale before the customer said yes). When he told me that selling was all about mind games and making people believe that buying the product was their idea, it made me uneasy. I thought of the proverbial wolf tip-toeing through a flock of sheep, squeezing them to see which was the fattest.
Much like many other people, I've worked at several different jobs, each with different managers or supervisors. I can attest that some jobs sucked more so than others. In fact, one job I had for 3 months was so miserable that I didn't even want to get out of bed to go to work. You know you're working in the wrong place when you don't want to get out of bed or say to yourself 'get me out of here!' or you drive home at night, crying all the way because you're stressed and distressed.
SO! When the idea of owning my own business struck me week before last, I had to do an inventory on my sanity pills. Now I'm wondering if my muse was just playing games with me. Nevertheless, I tried to quash the idea under word count while I was writing. Nope. Like a dead fish, the idea kept bobbing back to the surface, just as creepy and twice as bizarre. I am not a business person. It's not just that I have a loathing for the establishment, but that I do not have a head for it. I work because I have a family to care for. I am right-brained with an over-active muse. But because I am also a writer, the first thing I did (after balking over the absurdity of the idea) was research. If you don't know, look it up, right? If you have net access of any sort, and ignorant, it's because you choose to be ignorant. So I delve from one website to another, asked myself all kinds of questions, envisioned all sorts of ideas, looked up the good, the bad and the really ugly of the chosen business (which, BTW was self-storage). If naught else, the belch of inspiration gave me an opportunity to learn about something I never thought of before.
Taxes, insurance, bookkeeping, business planning, inventing new twists to old ideas filled several pages in a notebook. I pondered and considered (because I am not one to just jump into things). It actually looked promising and there was a strong potential I'd make good money on this enterprise. But one evening on my way home something else struck me like a sign from God.
There are many things in this world with which I could survive without. But my writing is most certainly NOT one of them. I know there are writers out there who labor under tough jobs-nurses for example. And there have been mothers who write at night while their children are sound asleep. But across the years, I have given up or chosen an alternate path in life because of my love for writing. I chose not to have children because I love to write. I gave up struggling to be an artist because I realized I am, by far, a better writer than an artist. I hold the God-given job I have just so I could write. Therein lies my soul. That is where I reside. I am not an accountant. I am not a businessperson. I am not an energetic, highly-motivated individual nor am I competitive. I am a storyteller. I create worlds and invent creatures. I spin nightmares and reveal secrets. I use words to paint laughter and sadness on the canvass of a page.
For me it's not about money or things, positions or status quo. I am happy right where I am and honestly, why would anyone want anything more?