Can't fight this feeling.
Today marks the end of my first work week in over three years.
This morning, I found myself bounding out of bed before the alarm rang as a subtle sense of anticipation spurred me on to the office. I was almost impatient to reach my desk to start the transcribing, and I found myself silently crafting the introduction to my piece as the bus chugged along.
To me, the raw material is the most frustrating yet exciting to work with - in its murky mess lie endless possibilities and angles where a subtle tweak or shift in words can alter the essence of the piece. Then came the repetitive cycle of typing, re-reading and editing every other line in an attempt to transform the tangles of information into coherence. My eyes flick to the clock ever so often, my heart hammering a little faster each time.
What might sound like a mundane race against time is really what gives me that heady rush. A piece can never be perfect, but more than half the fun's derived while striving to get there.
It is probably too early to say, and definitely way to soon to ascertain, but honestly? So far so good.
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