Blog 69 - It's Almost Over!

Blog 69 - It's Almost Over!

September 2025

The last tick of the clock is the most anticipated sound in the pre-dawn quiet. That familiar, almost melodic tick that signals the end of another night shift. Ah, sweet release. The reports are neatly filed, their digital ink barely dry. The CCTV screens, which for hours have been a kaleidoscope of silent, watchful surveillance, are now just a comforting static hum, their duty done. My patrols have been completed, every door checked, every shadow accounted for. The world outside is still sleeping, oblivious to the small, vital tasks meticulously completed in the dark.
There’s a quiet, almost smug satisfaction that settles over me at this point. A deep, bone-weary contentment that comes from a job well done. From knowing I showed up, I did the thing, I kept the peace (or at least, ensured nothing exploded on my watch). And in a few weeks, that satisfaction will be accompanied by a tangible, albeit somewhat meager, wage. A crisp number in my bank account, a direct result of hours clocked, duties discharged, and coffee consumed. It’s a guaranteed return, a solid, dependable exchange. And honestly, right now, after wrestling with a particularly stubborn printer and convincing a confused delivery driver that, no, the main entrance really is locked at 3 AM, that solid guarantee feels like a warm hug.
But that’s where the neatly filed reports of my night shift diverge sharply from the wild, unkempt files of my other life. The one I chase with the same dedication, perhaps even more, but with far less certainty of a payday. My writing career exists in a parallel universe where 'patience is a virtue' is less a saying and more a cosmic joke. My Novel is still sitting there. Waiting. Patiently. It waits for its big break, its grand unveiling, its moment in the literary sun. Email submissions? Oh, I've sent enough of those to clog the internet's arteries. They've streamed out into the digital ether, each one a tiny paper boat carrying a piece of my soul, destined for the vast, often silent, ocean of publishing. Rejection letters have formed their own support group in my inbox – a small, understanding community of "we regret to inform you" and "not quite the right fit." I could probably wallpaper the Taj Mahal with the sheer volume of "no, thank you" replies I’ve accumulated.
And my website? Let's just say it gets fewer visitors than the International Space Station, and at least they have a captive audience. I update it, I diligently post blogs into the void. However, my analytics dashboard still remains a lonely place, a stark reminder that while I like to think of myself as a budding literary star, the internet views me more as a charming roadside attraction, just off the main road down an unused dusty trail.
Short stories? Don't even get me started. I have enough of those tucked away in various digital folders to furnish a small library. Flash fiction, literary fiction, speculative fiction, Fantasy, horror… the list goes on. Each one, a little world, painstakingly crafted. Each one, a hopeful whisper sent out into a world that seems perpetually preoccupied with louder, brighter, more established voices.
So why, for the love of all that is logical, do I persist? Why do I cling to this dream when there’s no guarantee, no tangible wage, no clocking out with a satisfied sigh? I’ll tell you why, it’s that relentless, insistent tug of imagination. It’s the whispers of characters demanding to be heard, the urgent need to build worlds, to tell stories, to make sense of the madness, or simply to create a new kind of madness. It’s the tantalizing possibility that this one, the next one, or even the last one, will finally click. That one day, someone will read my words and feel a flicker of what I felt writing them.
The night shift offers the satisfaction of completion. My writing offers the thrill of potential. One is a finish line, the other an ever-receding horizon, shimmering with hope. It’s a bizarre, often thankless dance, this dual life. A constant negotiation between the practicalities of paying the bills and the insistent demands of the soul.
Am I delusional? Probably. Do I occasionally wonder if I should just pack it all in and focus purely on the tangible, reliable world of security patrols and properly printed reports? Absolutely. But then a new idea sparks, a character winks, or a sentence just sings, and the doubt recedes. The urge to create, to connect, to leave a tiny written mark on the world, is simply too strong.
So, as the first hint of pre-dawn light bleeds into the sky, painting the east with soft hues of orange and grey, I'll clock out. I'll grab my meager wage, that solid testament to another night shift completed. And then, I'll drive home, pour coffee strong enough to wake the dead, and open that blinking cursor, hoping to see a favorable reply. The stories are still waiting. And so am I. Perhaps, just perhaps, one day they'll pay as well as a night's worth of watching empty corridors. A writer can dream, right?