In the Quest of Daily Bread

In the past three weeks I've applied for six jobs and made a fruitless telephone call in pursuit of a seventh. In most cases there has been no reply. Then I've browsed dozens to hundreds of job listings every day on all types of newspaper and magazine websites, job listings websites, and museum or other institution websites; and I check my two e-mail accounts (I have a second one for the situations where spam is a likely contingency) with corresponding frequency. Of course it feels pathetic and depressing, and I detest feeling that my life is on hold because I wait between job applications so that I am not likely to turn any positive replies down, and I have to be fully ready for the possibility that the job I eventually obtain will be an emotional and mental strain. If I were certain that I could do every job perfectly well and that I had the requisite experience for it, or that my employers would be detailed in their instructions, it would not be so much of a problem, but I'm not. Yet this process evidently must be undergone.

Since I've only been published once, and don't intend to publish much or anything until my writing substantially improves, it might be out of the question anyway, but I don't like the idea of drawing on government funds to defray the costs of living as a freelance writer. If I were performing a public service by entertaining society at large and contributing meaningfully to the cultural life of the country in which I live, it would be something else, but I'd prefer to live off the proceeds of published articles, book sales, etc. anyway. The problem with working a side or day job is that it might sap one's energies, and is hard to find especially here in Germany where elaborate qualifications are needed for pretty much everything (which I think does make sense, considering that 80 million people are living in such a confined territory, and there has to be some way of deciding between job applicants).

Anyway, I won't pretend that I haven't thought at times that I'd like to be a 19th-century gentlewoman living off the parents' estate, were it not that I'd be living off the hard work of the tenants. Upon further deliberation I don't even think I'd rebel and go off to become a newspaperwoman or sculptor or something of the sort; I'm too sensitive and fond of domestic comfort.

In the meantime I am diverting my mind with the piano, blogs, and a screenwriting project which I'd rather only discuss once it's become clear that I'll persist in working out the details.