On Jobs. And English Degrees. And Kilts.

Okay. Grain of salt time! It's time for my little addition to the angry blogosphere.

Frankly, I'm tired. I'm tired of sending out an indeterminate number of resume copies, emails, and submissions. And I'm tired of being one small, but important smidgen of a qualification away from 'good enough'. I'm really tired of everyone suggesting to the English graduate: 'But why aren't you teaching?'

Are you partial to well-mashed, pre(post/perpetual/purple/whatever)-adolescent pie-filling? I have the most immense respect for those of my peers that went on to teach despite the miasma of underpaid, undervalued bullshit. I don't, however, share your courage. Or your patience. Teaching - at least in the traditional way - is not my mission.

I want to write; I want to build. I want to be an engineer of worlds. I want to walk on distant, untrod soils - the fantastic, the heroic, but ultimately, the familiar. I want to show people what it means to dream, to imagine; what it means to dig deep inside oneself by soaring the endless skies of Somewhere Else. This is what mastery of language, of ideas and thought, can allow. And though I am hardly a master of experience, I've taken many important steps in that direction, and I intend to keep going.

Let me tell you something, nay-sayers and jaded HR managers alike: English is an experience. English is not only what we speak, it is how we talk, it is what we say, and it is how we think. Yes, it is also what we teach, but, Christ, is it infinitely more than that.

Words are power. Tolkien and so many others have recognized this. Words demand reaction, elicit emotion, inspire, dissuade, anger, belittle. Create. Change. To understand how, why, is to have insight into how everyone around you constructs their very reality. And it allows you to construct your own. It is so much more than article writing, editing, and outdated, prescriptive grammar.

Of course, what do I have to show for all my aspirations? A big, fat, cudgel-wielding creative block. It may even channel Gibson in woad and wear a kilt. I don't care. I've been too tired to fight it. Tired of feeling like a cog. Tired of feeling like I don't matter; like my talents are a drop in an endless pool of ultimately small depth; that I should crave the golden hand of corporate acceptance like a love-starved pup. Then I froth a bit and feel ridiculous at having even indulged all of that needlessly poetic self-pitying nonsense. And then I feel tired. Again.

But what grates me the most? The silence.





Empty space? Yes, that. The nothing. No response. The definition of impersonal.

I realize academically that employers have to take their time with the sheer volume of interest they must receive, especially in the video game/arts industry. But talk about perpetuating cycles. No response? Tired. Tired? Less output. No response?

If this post seems inspired or creative, clearly it's because I'm angry and channeling the Dark Side. Or I'm simply fed up. Do I have what you want, game designers, writers, creative directors, community managers? After the advice, counseling, soul-searching, and prayers, I still have no idea. And I'm still tired.

So since my Jedi mind powers have yet to reveal themselves, and I can't read your minds, I suppose it's time to throw off the chains, dig into the trenches, and channel Macduff while I crosswire my allusions. I may still be tired, but I've got plenty of punch-drunk, job searching-inspired rage, two thumbtacks, and a wad of gum.

Bring it, Mr. Scottish Block. I've had way too much time to watch MacGyver.

MCH