| |
|
After about a year or so of prevaricating, in July I sat down to start writing my Professional Development Report, summing up what I'd done to make myself a better librarian since leaving university. It was exceptionally hard work. For some reason, though I can explain in clear, concise sentences what I had to do to prove this, doing it was extremely difficult. This went beyond writers block, it was like a mental block at the point of thinking about the issue. I only had to do six thousand words and it was hell every step of the way. I think part of the reason I had such a relatively easy time writing a short novel at the same time was the pressure of this report pushing me on.
I would have an average of two hours a day, five days a week, to work on this, and often didn't manage much more than a sentence. Then, in December, the first draft was done. So I sent it to the guy at work who oversees our training and he sent it back with some valid criticisms. So I went through, making the changes he suggested, and organising the information that goes into the appendices. A fortnight ago I sent it to him again and he suggested a few minor things, but said it was otherwise okay. So I made those changes, and printed it all out in neat.
And today I got the three copies I have to send in bound, then sent off from the post office by registered mail. And I walked around the town wearing a skirt and didn't let any wisearse wanker freak me out.
And (SFD take note), I've been trannying at work and not heard a peep from management.
They better accept the report now I've written the fucker. |
|
|
(btw, Bagpuss paint job still proving elusive).