A nap and a drink.

That’s what I felt like I needed after getting home yesterday.

My car was overheating, and a new radiator with an oil change cost over $550. While they worked on the car, I sat in a nearby coffee shop, trying to work, but mostly thinking.

I’d been working a temp assignment at an association since June as a communications director. It had felt, originally, like a dream job. I had a quarterly publication, social media, marketing, writing, editing, and design work to do. I was scheduled to head to a major city this Wednesday for a conference, and I was planning to see a couple of friends I haven’t seen in four years.

Originally, it had felt like a good fit. I was looking for a position so I could work on my writing on the side. Do some dog training on the weekends. I’d struggled with settling into Arkansas in general. I had worked six months at a doggy daycare which didn’t end so well when they broke their end of the contract and then threatened to withhold my final paycheck if I didn’t hand over something I had created in my own time. I then had a wonderful experience with a local drama program, but working with children isn’t for me, and my time there came to an end on good terms. In general, I could get that first interview, but no second rounds or offers. And I learned that this was not unique or personal. Arkansas is all about who you know and where you go to church, and outsiders aren’t welcome. I actually got called “that damn Yankee” two weeks ago, by another damn Yankee who’s lived in the south since 1993.

And then things started to shift at the association. I would spend hours on a design, only to be told that “Sorry, I just don’t like it,” without any additional direction. I was told fonts had to be the same size across a design, even for different sections. And I was told that designs I created, that were based on decisions made without my input, were simply not good enough.

I didn’t know how to make anything good enough.

I had been honest in the interview. I had some design experience, but no education in it. And it’s been a while since I’d done design work. With this new position, still, I finished up the summer magazine on my own, even after taking a preplanned trip to Pennsylvania and writing two additional articles for it.

I’d created a brochure for a massive event, dealing with the constant changes and criticism, but that took a toll on me. When I raised questions, I was summoned into the president’s office and was told I’d been accused of being combative by the very people who had wanted me there in the first place.

I didn’t know what was happening. In meetings and on my lunch breaks, I started making little notes, getting out my frustrations and making plans over the things that I could control.

When it came time for brochures for two additional events, I created pieces that were based on all of the feedback I’d been given. One was a hipster theme that had been decided back in April. I’d worked on picking out colors and fonts with someone else in the office, using the initial theme and original artwork. We decided to change one symbol to something else instead. And the other was focused on a historical element. There was to be a historical figure. It should look like a certain artist’s work.

And then the brochures sat on a desk for nearly a week until she told me she just didn’t like either of them, and she wasn’t sure why. I was to check out the designs from the years earlier. I needed to “get on the level.”

I went and talked to the president. I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t know how to create something that was acceptable. So they determined I simply wasn’t good at graphic design. Another person in the office, I was told, very enthusiastically accepted all of the design work.

I tried setting up weekly meetings with the other two individuals who needed to work on marketing events with me. I tried using verbiage like, “I’d like to help you. What can I take off of your plate?” I got a lot of “I guess” and “If you’re comfortable doing that” in response.

A week later, I got a call at 7 pm on Friday from the temp manager. The association needed a graphic designer instead of a writer. It was nothing personal. I was not to go back into the office. The manager at the temp agency would go collect my things. They were willing to pay me an extra week. I could finish up the writing or not that I still had left to do. They were also willing to hire me as a contract writer.

It wasn’t about me personally, he stressed. I just wasn’t what they needed at the time.

And yesterday, after my car was fixed, I headed to the temp office. The manager sat me down and pulled out some photocopied pages. The folks in the office had gone through my papers that morning and found an unflattering note calling them a name. I owned it, and I admitted it was unprofessional and I shouldn’t have written it.

“The reason there’s a bit of a sore spot around this,” he explained, “Is that the person before you, in a different position, left a similar note in a notepad open for everyone to see.”

“I wrote it down so I didn’t say it,” I explained. And it certainly wasn’t something I’d left out casually. They really had dug through everything on my desk–something that had taken them awhile, because he had also told me earlier that he’d been calling them for quite a bit until he was able to reach someone.

“I get it,” he said. “We all make mistakes. Next time, just scribble it out and throw it away if you have to.”

And he pulled out some of my dog training notes. I explained that the dog training stuff was on my own time, during lunch. I forget to add that it was also during those incredibly long staff meetings when they got on tangents about listening to true crime podcasts, microblading eyebrows, and children starting kindergarten.

And he asked me if I was sure I wouldn’t finish the writing.

I had spent some time that morning going through all of my unfinished projects, listing out what was done and what needed to be done. I’d emailed the president with everything I could think of because I wanted to close things out on a good note. “No,” I said. “I would like a clean break.”

He nodded, and then explained I wouldn’t get the extra week of pay I’d been told I would get.

And I really wish I hadn’t, but I cried a bit. It all seemed like a setup. At some point, things had taken a turn, and no matter what I did, I couldn’t make people happy.

And that was okay.

It took me a few hours to realize it, but I’m okay.

Because I have other projects to work on. And I have people who do enjoy working with me.

It is simply not necessary for me to waste any additional time in a space where I am not a good fit.

I do not need to regret, or become depressed, or feel bad I couldn’t be what they wanted me to be.

Last night, when I stood there in the kitchen while my nephew did the dishes, I gave him the edited version of what had happened.

I started laughing. “Isn’t it silly,” I said, “That they got mad at me after they fired me?”

He started laughing, too. “That is pretty funny. They tried to get you in trouble after they already fired you.”

I had my drink. A glass of red wine.

It’s got antioxidants.

I didn’t have a nap. I decided to laugh instead of cry. I decided to take the lesson of my personal belongings and not make notes about others.

Or, at the very least, make sure I scribble it out and toss it away.

—

Sustaining Craft is back this Thursday! I talk with Jessica and Justin Crum about films and graphic design. Support the podcast here. Also follow along on Instagram here, with behind-the-scenes and writing tips here. Hew and Weld is also on Facebook.

And I’ve started dog training with group classes at SoMa Animal Clinic and private lessons available for in-home work. Find Telltail Dog online: website, Instagram, and Facebook.