a short letter about work

Late one Friday afternoon, the resident copywriter opens her colleague’s monthly electronic missive. Sitting quietly at her desk, a soft light glowing from the hallway just beyond the keyboard’s edge, she smiles at her team’s success. Warmth dances in her eyes as they skim the screen that boasts of last year’s success. All accolades have been earned. Excellence is the bare minimum and no one her team does the bare minimum. Her fingers close around her coffee mug as she beholds number after number that only barely reflects the passion and tenacity of her team. She is a lucky writer, indeed, to work alongside such quality.

After a moment, the little writer sees her own numbers. The corners of her mouth turn down approximately 0.15789348 and a half millimeters. 

“What is this…?” she whispers to herself. 

She sits up a little straighter. “The fuck….?”

THUNK rings through her small home office as the bottom of her mug makes sudden, angry contact with its favored coaster.

“Less than 300? How did I manage less than 300 projects?” Her eyes have fixed on those three numerals as if they were traitors during the American Revolution. The chill in the air has naught to do with the chill outside. She shivers and closes the window. Her soul runs cold enough. Her feline companion dares not enter.

“I shall rise again.” The writer stands up to full, commanding height. Distraught no longer, she is determination incarnate. Steel will with a command of the English language. Done for the week, she turns shuts down for the evening, knowing… knowing only too well… that the fight back to full-on, no-holds-barred wordsmithing has just begun.

Context: I was out on medical leave for some time last year. I normally crank out almost 400 completed projects a year. I’m about to start bringing it because I want my bragging rights back.

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