Bornfamous

A long time ago, I started this blog with a promise to myself that I would write something every day. This would be my morning pages, written by hand in my paper journal first (according to Julia Cameron’s rules), and then transcribed here on BornFamous. It worked, more or less, until three years ago.

That’s when I got fired.

In the days leading up to January 18, 2002, I was paralyzed with fear because I knew it was coming, and something about that fear killed all my creative impulses. Writing was the last thing I wanted to do. Since then, I’ve tried halfheartedly to bring this blog back to life a few times but the spirit wasn’t there. It felt like the spirit—my spirit—was broken.

It’s not like I haven’t lost jobs before. What’s the big deal, right? It wasn’t even a very good job. Except that it allowed me to work at home, at my own pace, without having to deal with the fragrances and other fumes of the workplace. I knew I could never find another a job like that.

There was another factor that shut down my creativity: I was ashamed, deeply, of the reason for my firing. I had been caught padding my hours.

Not something you want to admit on a public blog… or anywhere else for that matter. I could rationalize by saying that I was desperate to support my son and myself while maintaining what was left of my health, but that doesn’t justify what I did. At first I “paid back” the loan by working extra hours for free. Soon I began to tell myself that they didn’t pay me enough and I had earned the extra money with my hard work and creative ideas. Eventually, I rationalized that at least I felt guilty—that must count for something, right?—and I swore to stop with the very next pay period. But I didn’t. Next time, I told myself. And then, next time. That’s when I got caught.

I was lucky. My former boss chose not to press charges or sue me, but the loss of trust, the hurt in his voice on the phone, was punishment enough. I sat at my desk and cried every day for weeks. I began to look for absolution in Buddhist books, yoga and meditation. Blogging seemed to be an activity from another life; I couldn’t tell the truth on the Internet—who knew what the repercussions might be? Not to mention the risk of losing the last friends I had—my readers.

When my former coworkers heard the news, they tried to be understanding but we had all been friends, some very close. Those friendships did not survive the loss of trust and respect that they’d had for me. Worse, they all lost their jobs because of what I did. The boss had long wanted to set up an office and stop using home workers; my betrayal was the catalyst for doing just that. One friend never spoke to me again. Others faked it for a while but eventually stopped returning my calls and emails. I don’t blame them.

I’m telling you this because I can’t write until I come clean. Writing, for me, is about honesty. If I can’t tell the truth, I can’t think of anything worth saying. Which reminds me that I stopped writing—what I call “real” writing—long before I was fired. If I were to look back through my archives, I could probably tell you when I started padding my hours because that’s when I started lying to myself about what and who I was. That’s when I stopped “real” writing. You can’t write honestly and truly when you are lying to yourself.

So now I’ve said it. I feel a little better, though a bit nervous about what may happen because of this public confession.

Maybe now I’ll be able to write again. If so, it will have been worth it.