At night, words are bubbling up from the depths of my conscience and they won’t let me sleep. I could write a whole novel in one breath, yet I feel paralyzed by the fear that I’ll lose “a good night’s sleep” and ruin my next day, so I keep struggling, one foot out of the duvet at a time, stretching my muscles, I’m so tense one would think I was carrying rocks on my back all day long, not interpreting.
I’m at a place in my life where I’m discontent with my professional life and at the same time I’m so tired, I feel like I was 60 sometimes, waiting to retire. So as much as I welcome changes, it feels overwhelming, too. To tell you the truth, I hope I’ll be able to retire in 12 years or so and live off property or writing.
I’d like to study psychology, but that would mean biting off a big chunk- 6 intense years of school while working on the side, plus I’d have to improve my math grades from high school before even being admitted to the course. (I mean math? Really?) Besides, I’d be working with people and I have to remind myself all the time- as much as I like the idea of people, I don’t actually like people very much. Besides, a career as an expert psychologist in court would probably mean working in psychiatry first and I don’t like hospitals, either. So I don’t really feel up to it, period. Or maybe I’m just finding excuses.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy interpreting, I just dislike the frame- the arbitrariness of it all, the being on stand-by, the people I interpret for, the dirty games from certain lawyers and interpreters, the same type of cases, so it feels more like regurgitating a lesson learned by heart than actually interpreting, I could go on for ages. In the past I would sometimes get so angry I couldn’t sleep. Now it’s more a form of resignation, I know the rules, I know some people break them, I can’t get how they live with themselves, but that’s their problem, not mine. I have a comfortable income and occasionally a lot of spare time, so I shouldn’t complain, but how come I feel like I’m not fulfilling my potential? That I could do so much more? That I could have my name on the door somewhere? As soon as I voice these thoughts I realize how silly they sound, most places people work on computers all day long, in “open landscapes”, having a boss on top of them to make their days sour. Still, I long for some acknowledgement, I guess.
But back to writing- ever since I can remember, reading and writing have been my one true love. I read periodically though, as it often depends on the book and my capacity to concentrate. Besides I’m ruthless with bad translations, if the language isn’t sturdy, the story has no value in my book. So I try to read books in their original language, as much as I can. And the writing often emerges to the surface after reading something good or after experiencing something powerful- be it happy or sad.
And so I try to write these days and it’s like pulling teeth, or pissing blood, if you will. The words come out slowly and painfully and in the end I don’t like anything I’ve written- good old sentimental bullshit.
But hey, the sun is shining, it’s Saturday, I found a cooking book at the local flea market and we’re getting Sam back tonight! Until then, I’ll put on my urban face and go out for coffee with F!