Nothing is gonna change... till you change

It hasn’t been one day since I had my “Staff Appraisal” in this place I work, Event Cinemas. For those who have never had the opportunity of working for a big company, “Staff Appraisal” is a chance to close the gap between the hot shots and the Slaves-of-the-big-machines—or Casual Employees, as they like to call us. We sit at a table, discuss our progress insofar, comment on the positive and negative aspects of the work environment, pinpoint relevant flaws of the way the cinema is being run, etc. It’s a good idea, actually. It makes us feel that the company cares about our opinion, even though in a ridiculously small dimension.

It’s rather intimidating. You’re facing up people whose annual salaries sum up to A$200,000 (or so the legend tells), and as a pawn you have to watch out for every move you make. It’s like playing chess against a Russian dude: no matter how good he could actually be on his game, you already start the match thinking that you’re losing. I guess my problem with these companies is that you have to feed a bigger creature that has no principles or real concern with human beings. I mean, it’s all about profit. So if you can write a thesis about changing the way the popcorn is made (so it can taste not so much as plastic wrapped up in colourful salt), they won’t even bother to listen if this project of yours is going to prompt them to lose money.

There’s no room for flavour, feelings, or smile. Actually, there’s only one way of making these big companies feel satisfied: the tinkling of coins, the flapping of bills, the sliding of credit cards. Human beings are just a way to get to the dollars. That’s why I chose to be writer, and not a bookkeeper. The only numbers I care about are the sum of words in my writings. That’s it.

I think it was thanks to this way I envisage big companies that I fell really surprised by the way my interview was conducted. The Assistant Manager pushed all the binders away and, looking me in the eyes, asked me to tell her the story of my life.

“You mean…?”

“I know you’re a good worker here. I know you’ve been with us since May, and I know you came to Australia in February. I know you bust your arse wherever we roster you, I know you have an accent that make us laugh and ask you to repeat what you said half of the times, but I don’t know who you are. So tell me: why are you in Australia for? What did you do in Brazil? Who did you have to leave in your hometown?”

So I explain her. It’s supposed to be an easy thing, because I’ve done it several times.

I begin telling her that I’m a writer. She interrupts me.

“Really?” Her eyes bulge, and her face almost glows.

“Yes.” I shrug. “It’s not that exciting, come on.”

“I find it amazing.”

Yeah. Right. I hate this reaction. In a way, it makes me feel like a mouse in a crazy scientist lab. It makes me feel like I’m exactly a character of a book. Foreigner, with a Latin accent, a man of creative arts. People respond to that description as if I’m a sexy genius (I wish!), but I can read their minds. All the writers can.

You’re a writer! That’s awesome! I wish I could write!

O.K., let’s now translate to what they really think.

You’re a writer! That’s… NUTS! When are you going to wake up, take a bus back to earth, and start living a real life? You can’t make money out of that!

As usual, I try to make it short. I’m a writer, and as I love to tell stories, I know by own experience that if I don’t rush things up, people will get tired of my obsession with details and just beg me to finish it already. So I keep on telling my life-changing decision as laconically as I can.

“It was a do or die situation. I had a good job. I liked it. I had a girlfriend. Friends. All of my family lived nearby. My life was set. But in Brazil people don’t read much. I don’t have any chances of getting published there. I’d become just another bitter old man, regretted of the things I haven’t done. I would have had an O.K. apartment, vacations every once and a while. A dog, perhaps. But there would have been a cancer growing inside me, a cancer that would eat me alive and make me perish within my own frustrations for not trying as hard as I could have. I knew that nothing was gonna change unless I changed. So I had to let go of all the bonds that kept me tied up to Brazil. Adeus família, amigos, namorada. No more the old life. I’m heading to an English-speaking country, I’m gonna translate my novels, and I’m gonna make it.”

The reaction to this statement is always the same, and it wasn’t different with the two women who were interviewing me for my appraisal.

“My gosh! You’re a brave man.”

“Really, really brave. I don’t know if I’d have the guts to do it. Actually, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t.”

I nod and smile, although my throat tickles and I feel an urge for telling them they’re wrong. People who say that they wouldn’t have the nerves to do it are always wrong. Let me tell you one thing: if you’re afraid of making a big change in your life, that’s because you don’t need to. If the time to say goodbye to all the things you’re familiar with comes, you won’t even blink. Believe me. It’s not easy, but it has to be done. Those who think they would rather play safe and not take chances are the ones who can’t understand the beauty of daring. It’s that stuff Nietzsche says about darkness, monsters, and battles, right? If you gaze into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. Your desires and fears are not detached from your true self. They’re all one. Whether you yield to them or fight them back, it’s still you. So you have to take over. Do or die. Drag with your head down and accept that you can’t be brave enough to go after your dreams, or just take a leap of faith.

I know that this subject amazes people, and it's not different with my bosses. I can see they’re having fun. They are watching the show, they’re having the chance of analysing the poor rat running in a maze in a lab, as I said. Everybody loves to see a beautiful lion. Everybody loves to watch shows where people struggle to lose weight. Everybody loves to meet writers. However, nobody would like to live in an African Savannah, put on 100 Kg, or be in the publishing industry. That’s the magic of it… some things are only meant to be beheld, not lived. If it happens that you’re one of the animals locked in a zoo cage, trembling on a TV screen, or writing in the solitude of your own room… well, then it’s just too bad for you. You’re the one meant to entertain. You’re the entertainment.

“Well, it was great to hear that from you,” the Assistant Manager says. “Now, let’s get back to your appraisal.”

The meeting goes on, and I try my best to give the right answers. I need this job. I can’t afford to lose it. I’m still in my first year in this country, and I need at least one more until I get my grammar right. Then I’ll have to get an agent. It can take years to get published, if I ever get published. Let alone the chances of actually make a living out of my fiction. Damn, this is crazy. My future is blurry, and chances of succeeding are not on my side at all. But what can I do? I knew it would be hard. I knew I’d have to strive for perfection, even though I’m pretty sure I’m miles away from reaching it. I knew I’d have to tell the story of my life and see people grinning as they beheld a dreamy boy who thinks that his writing can take him somewhere. I’m up to the challenge. Hell, I’m up to the mocking. My past life is nothing but past. It’s good to remember it. I had a blast. For real. But it’s past, as I already said. It won’t happen again. I’m living in the now. Unlike these people who work for law firms or whatever company you could name, I don’t live in the expectation of numbers by the end of the week.

I live for the words.

Translate, write, edit, and review. Let the other people feel entertained by your own life.

You’re a writer, damn it. Giving the world a good time is your job, after all.

It doesn’t pay well, but I guess it pays off.