Sherri Cornelius

I’ve been rockin’ it at the library. They say I’m a “quick study.” And indeed, much of how they operate hits me right in the instincts. It seems almost too easy. The time I spend there doesn’t feel like work.This is great for the prospects of my being able to handle a second job.

Or maybe when I finally get Black Veil Angel out in the world, I’ll sell a million copies at five bucks a pop and then I’ll just be working at the library for fun.

Haha, I’m so funny.

But even figuring I won’t sell a million copies (or even a hundred) I’m still on track to publish BVA by, oh, say, March-ish. I was thinking about entering the Amazon Breakthrough Whatever, but I realize that this book is not for that contest. And so I’ll continue with my little self-publishing venture.

My main goal here is to finalize BVA in my mind. When I put Mon Petit Ami out there, it was after years of going back to it, over and over, trying to fix it. It rarely left my thoughts. I put it “under the bed” permanently four or five times, only to find it as an itch in my brain some time later. Probably every person reading this has scratched that itch once or twice.

Then when I needed a piece to experiment with on Smashwords, it seemed like the logical choice. Imperfect, yes, but fairly solid and fun. I straightened its hair bow and pushed it onstage, and you know what? The itch left me. I published it over a year ago and not once have I had the urge to edit. NOT ONCE. I rarely even think about it anymore. I’m free! I’m hopeful this will be the case with BVA as well.

And if a few people get a little enjoyment out of it, all the better.

It feels good to be writing again, even if it’s the clinical, critical kind of writing that is editing. This isn’t rewriting. I’ve rewritten enough. This is taking out stuff I’m not sure of and filling in the gaps..with, by the way, fresh and untainted writing. A good piece to stretch my legs on after all this time, and when I’m finished I might even start a new book.

No pressure.

I have left the worst (to me) job in the world behind. I know some people work there if not happily then somewhat contentedly, but for me it was pain wrapped in gloom stuffed with cabbage. I left on Friday, to start at the library on Monday.

I took with me some small cuttings of fabric and balls of thread from the trash, along with a button which had been stuck in a crack in the concrete floor beside my machine since about my second day. My intention was to burn these things as a symbol of my freedom. I expected the transition weekend to be spent ridding myself of the sewing factory and welcoming the library into my brain space.

I was surprised to find myself putting off this symbolic burning of denim I’d been looking forward to all week. I didn’t need it after all. The factory was just gone, as soon as I walked out the door. Now and then through the weekend I would remember I never had to go back there, whereupon I would be flooded with relief and I might hoot and/or holler for just a sec, but by Sunday I was pretty much done with the hoots and hollers.

I was also surprised to find that I wasn’t frozen with giddy anticipation for my first day at the library. I sort of thought I might be too nervous to sleep Sunday night. But no, I had a feeling of peace and went to sleep with no trouble. Woke up ready to go, calm. I got a little antsy as the time grew nearer to leave, but it was no worse than any other appointment-nerves. Just trying to calculate the time I need to leave, make sure I have everything, etc. Starting my first day at the library didn’t seem especially significant or electrifying—just right. About time.

Being a shelver means I’m walking a lot. Constant movement, as with sewing, except I’m using my lower body more than my upper body. Once again I have to go through a period of adjustment, but hopefully this time I end up stronger rather than broken. This changing schedule is going to be strange for a while. I’ll be working evening shift sometimes, something I haven’t done since Wal-Mart in college. This means that I’m constantly thinking about what time I’m supposed to go to work, what time it is currently, and checking the schedule to make sure I haven’t gotten the time wrong.

Today I don’t have to go in till four. It’s so strange to be home all alone! Only four months ago this was what I did every day, but it feels like a lifetime.

Thanks for sticking with me through the ups and downs. It’s been a long time since I felt really good about something.

I started calling the sewing factory “the place where dreams go to die.” My brother pointed out that in “Dinner for Schmucks” they say cabbage is the smell of dead dreams. Two days later, early morning, I smelled cabbage. No way, I said to myself and laughed. At lunch I smelled it again, and a feeling of rightness seeped into my being. Cabbage, dead dreams, fits this place to a tee. Apparently, one of the girls can’t get enough cabbage and heats it up in the microwave, sending the smell wafting over to my machine. I told her about the dead dreams line, and she laughed. We shared a moment. One of the few bright spots I’ve experienced there.

I guess I had forgotten just how much it sucks out in the job world. I was expecting reason and welcome and cooperation. I had forgotten how everybody gets up in your business while you’re just doing the best work you can, how there’s always someone judging you and strangely willing to tell you how you fall short.

BUT…

I had a job interview at the library. My interview was less nerve-wracking since the interviewer was my volunteer liaison at the library. I don’t know why, but she likes me a lot and is willing to go out of her way to help me. It’s good to have someone on your side.

The next step is waiting for my background check to complete. My advocate called me on Wednesday to make a provisional offer of employment, contingent on the OSBI report coming back clean--which, uh, yeah. No problems there. I had to suppress my joyous noises because I was in the snake den, i.e. the break area of the sewing factory, so I hope she understood how pumped I was. I think she did.

So the only thing I’m worried about is the part-time nature of the job. I’ll be making about as much per hour, but varying hours. It’ll be a challenge to fill in with a supplemental job if I need (or want) more money. That’s a worry that changes nothing in the way of the action I will take, which is to quit the soul-and-hand-crushing sewing job and cannonball right smack in the middle of a part-time question mark.

If everything works out I’ll be a shelver in less than a week’s time. Whenever I remember this tidbit my eyes well up and my body tingles. I belong there. You know how people say “you just know”? I knew from the beginning I didn’t belong at the sewing factory, and despite my natural optimism and every attempt to fake it till I make it, I haven’t had a single moment when I thought I might belong there. It literally smells like cabbage. However, I knew from the first time I set foot in this particular library that it was my place. When I go there I smile. I relax. So what’s the smell of vibrant, living dreams?