The slow death by admin

It’s a rather ignominious way to die.

I thought it would be in a burst of fiery rage, a shoot-out from roof tops, a high-speed chase through the city in helicopters.

But no. It would appear that Death-By-Paper-Cut is the fate that awaits me, bones stripped clean through piranha-like admin. Unfortunately, in the digital age — while paper cuts are something that occur substantially less frequently than they used to — the mental paper cut from over exposure to email is a real thing. Each email that lands in your inbox takes a tiny bite out of your brain, and en masse they do some real damage.

Email is also more insidiously economical: you can fit more emails into an inbox than you ever could pieces of paper into a physical inbox.

Yesterday, I wrote thousands of words. Literally thousands of words. Not one of them was in aid of a story. No, they were in emails, responding to the minutiae of other people’s problems.

I once had a boss who used to say, “You know what we really need to do?” First, fuck off on the rhetorical questions. Second, she never actually meant “we”. She meant “you”. “You do this, oh minion, who has nothing better to do than respond to my every whim.”

That is what the hundreds — yes, hundreds — of emails felt like. “Dear Angry Science Girl, You obviously have nothing better to do than devote all of your attention to the things I want from you. Pay you? Of course not. This is for the good of your [insert here*].”

What they also fail to mention is that it isn’t for my good. It’s actually for theirs. So that they don’t have to drown, gasping for breath under a pile of administration that is actually their job.

* country, reputation, company, democracy, unborn children, planet.

A little game: Your Job, My Job

Let us play a little game. I like to call it “Your Job, My Job”.

Organiser person, your job is to organise. Writer person, your job is to write. See how nicely we can play our little game, with you working to your strengths, and me to mine? Look how we frolic. Oh, the smiles, the joy, the laughter. This is such a lovely game.

So, why for the love of all things holy, are you asking me (the writer) to do your job (organising)?

I am not your friend. I don’t want to give up hours of my time out of the goodness of my heart. I chose to be a writer, not an organiser, ’cause — wait for it — I like writing. And they pay me for it. Do you know what I don’t like? Doing your job too.

You think that I’m smiling with acquiescence, happy to be given the chance to take the weight — of the job that you are paid to do — off your shoulders. No. That isn’t a smile. I’m baring my teeth at you, wondering if — one day — I might be gifted with the ability to set you on fire with my eyes.

Just do your fucking job.