Tag: transformation

Ten Cents

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

In my mid-twenties I was the office manager at an insurance adjustment firm, which is a title that meant almost nothing. What I actually did was accounts receivable and accounts payable, and errands, and whatever anyone needed, and on some days taking care of the dog. Ten dollars an hour. The owner smoked cigars at his desk all day, which is its own story.

About eight or nine months in, I was standing at the coffee machine when he walked up and asked me when I’d last gotten a raise.

I hadn’t. I told him so, and I got quietly excited about it.

He said I should give myself ten cents an hour on the next check.

Here’s something about me: I like math. I do arithmetic in my head for fun. So I had it before he finished the sentence. A dime an hour is a dollar every ten hours. Four dollars a week. Sixteen dollars a month.

I said thank you.

I want to be careful, because this is where the story wants a villain and I don’t have one.

That man let me work through cancer treatment. Let me come in for half days and never took a dollar out of my check for it. He was eccentric and he was generous, and the two had nothing to do with each other.

He wasn’t underpaying me out of malice. He was paying what he thought the job was worth, and he was probably right about the job. The gap wasn’t between what he offered and what was fair. It was between what the job was worth and what I believed I was worth, and I had those two things welded together without ever deciding to.

By then I’d been carrying a complaint for about two years.

The church thing had ended. I’d spent almost a year on odd jobs before the insurance office. And I had a story that explained all of it, which I could deliver on request and frequently did.

The university, for handing me a degree that turned out to be worth nothing. The economy. The hiring managers who wouldn’t give me a chance — a whole category of faceless people, conveniently unreachable, reliably at fault.

My wife heard every version of it. She was two or three years into being married to me.

And I lived the way people live when they hold a story like that. The dread started Sunday afternoon, somewhere in the middle of the day, well before it needed to. Evenings and weekends were the real life. The other five days were the toll.

The dime is what broke it, and not for the reason you’d think.

The cigar smoke should have done it. Getting cussed out by clients, occasionally by coworkers, should have done it. The sheer flatness of the work should have done it. None of that shook me, because all of it fit the story. Every miserable thing that happened was more evidence for the case I was already making.

Ten cents didn’t fit. Ten cents was a number, and I couldn’t argue with a number. Somebody had assessed what I was contributing and priced it, and the price was a dime.

The complaint had no answer for that. The university didn’t set that number. Neither did the economy. It was a measurement of what I was actually doing, in that building, that year — and the only person who could change it was me.

That’s what it cost. Not the pay, the excuse. The day the story stopped working was the day I couldn’t hand the problem to anyone else, and I’ve never found a way to describe how much heavier that is at first.

So I went to work on it, badly at first and then less badly.

I got my insurance adjuster’s license while I was there. I found a mentor — a real one, someone I could describe the actual situation to, out loud, including the parts where I suspected I was the problem. He started showing me a version of myself I hadn’t been able to see. I read business books I only half understood, mostly to get familiar with a language nobody had ever taught me. Zig Ziglar was in the car.

And I had time, because a job that uses a tenth of you leaves the other nine-tenths sitting there. What had been dead space turned into something closer to an incubator. I learned accounts payable and receivable properly. I learned how insurance actually works, which I still use — I know how to protect my family because of that job, and I’m not being cute about that.

It also became very clear that nobody was standing between me and any of it. I had a library card. The internet existed. There was no gate and no keeper.

I stayed two more years after that. Three and a half total.

I left making about thirteen dollars an hour. Three dollars more than I started, which sounds like nothing and was nothing.

What actually got me out was a friend at another company who knew I was looking and asked for my resume. That’s the whole mechanism. Someone asked, at random, on a day I happened to be ready — and the readiness was the only part of it I controlled.

I aced that interview. I was professional and prepared, and I could speak the language, and none of that was true of the man who’d been standing at the coffee machine doing math in his head. That job turned into data management, which turned into the last twenty years.

I look back at that stretch now and I’m proud of him. That’s not a thing I say often about my younger self.

He never got the scapegoat back. I’ve never wanted it.

Out of Tune

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

Several years back, I had a tape recorder in the passenger seat.

Not for anything important. Song ideas, mostly — I’d get a melody or a line while driving and reach over and hit record and sing it at the windshield. Later there was a little handheld one, and after that an MP3 recorder. Same habit, better hardware.

Almost none of it survived. The songs did, some of them, and a handful have since turned into real recordings. The talking is gone. Twenty years of ideas and observations and half-worked-out thinking, recorded onto tape and then never touched again, because the only thing to do with a tape is play it back in real time and I never once had a spare hour to listen to myself.

I’ve gone back to a few of those old songs lately. Here’s what I couldn’t hear at the time: the guitar is out of tune. Not wildly. Just enough. I didn’t know how to tune it properly back then and I had no idea that’s what I was listening to.

In the mid-2000s I worked at an insurance office and typed reports as a part of the job.

I got fast. Genuinely fast — that’s where the speed came from, and I still have it. I can still type 70 words a minute. I also came out of that job with a permanent aversion to long-form typing that has never once let up.

Somewhere in there I found a transcription tool, an Australian one whose name I’ve lost. I used it at work and then quietly for my own stuff. It transcribed, which sounds like the answer, except it put me right back at the keyboard cleaning up everything I’d said. The tool converted speech into a typing job. It didn’t remove the work; it moved it.

So the pattern for twenty years was: capture cheaply, pay dearly on the back end, and mostly just not pay — which is why the tapes are gone.

None of that was the actual problem.

I’m an auditory processor. I don’t think a thing through and then say it. I say it in order to think it through. The sentence coming out of my mouth is not a report on a conclusion, it’s the mechanism arriving at one, and it usually takes me a while to get there.

What that cost me — and I didn’t have words for this until more recently — is that most people can’t tell the difference. I’ve had to start telling people when I am thinking out loud.

Why you ask? I’d be mid-process, three or four minutes into working something out, and somebody would take a sentence from minute two and start acting on it. Building the plan. Pushing back. Getting concerned. Meanwhile I hadn’t landed yet, and now I’m defending a position I was only passing through.

I never used to say, I’m still thinking, let me get to the end. It didn’t occur to me that this needed announcing. I assumed everybody’s thinking sounded like this from the outside. My wife was the first one to point it out to me. I’m glad she did.

That’s the thing I couldn’t hear. Same as the guitar.

What changed is smaller than it sounds.

I can talk into my phone and get the text out the other side. Recently I spent four hours on a road trip, just talking, and every word of it came back to me in a form I could actually work with. Then I hand it off and it comes back organized instead of transcribed.

The capture was never the hard part. I’d solved capture in 1998 with a cassette. What I’d never had was somewhere to put four unedited hours where nothing would interrupt me at minute nine.

I don’t get better ideas than I got in the car twenty years ago. I get to keep them now, and I get to finish them out loud before anyone responds to them. That’s the whole difference. Everything I’ve made this year runs on it.

Twenty years of building workarounds for a constraint I never named. The recorder, the MP3 player, the software from Australia — all of it aimed at the storage problem, which was never really the problem.

I was in tune the entire time. I just needed to get all the way through the song before somebody stopped me.

On The Second Floor

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

My second ministry job came with an office on the second floor, at the end of a hall, away from where the other offices were. The reasoning was practical — they didn’t want teenagers wandering through the suite where the grown-ups worked. So they put me and the teenagers up where we wouldn’t be in the way.

It was an interior room. No window. Not much bigger than a broom closet, and I’ve never been sure it hadn’t been one.

I decorated it. Spent real time on that. Got it set up the way I wanted, because I was going to be in there studying and praying and planning, doing all the things a person does when he’s twenty-two and has been handed the thing he asked God for.

I sat in that room for two years and I was lonely in a way I didn’t have words for at the time.

I came in hot. Ideas, energy, plans. I’d done two years as a music and youth pastor already and I was going to do this one well.

Those two years turned out to be exactly enough experience to be dangerous. Enough that I stopped thinking of myself as somebody who needed to be taught anything, and not nearly enough for what this job actually was. The gap showed up fastest in the places I wasn’t looking. I was barely older than the kids, which felt like an advantage right up until I needed to be an authority and had no idea how to become one. The adults were harder. The volunteers who’d been serving in that ministry for years saw the job as something we’d figure out together. I saw it as mine. They offered feedback and I heard interference.

I wasn’t lazy. I worked hard the entire time. I just worked hard at the parts I already knew how to do and quietly avoided the parts I didn’t, which is the most convincing way there is to be failing while feeling productive. It didn’t take long to be noticeable.

By the second year I knew. Not in words, but in the mornings — sitting up in that room, unmotivated and miserable, and aware it had started to affect the one relationship the whole job was supposed to be about.

When they finally called me in, the decision was the right one. I’ve never once argued with the outcome. Quit or be fired. I quit.

What I’ve turned over for twenty-five years is that it was the first conversation. Two years, and the first honest exchange about how it was going was the one that ended it.

I want to be careful here, because this is where a story like this usually goes looking for a villain, and I don’t have one to give you. I was not an easy person to help. I was headstrong, I was defensive, and I’d have bristled at half of what needed saying. The version of this where someone sits me down in month four is not a version where I make it easy on them.

But I’d have taken a directive. That’s the part I know for certain. I respected the chain of command enough that if someone had said here is what we actually need from you, here is what we’re seeing, here are the three things that have to change — I’d have gone and done it. Nobody ever had to guess whether I’d follow an instruction. They only had to give me one.

What I needed was a mentor. I could not have told you that at twenty-two. I didn’t have the word for it. I just had the loneliness, and the ideas, and the closet with no window, and no idea that what I was missing was a person who’d already been where I was.

Years later I ended up in corporate data work, and I picked up the word fungible. It means interchangeable. One unit is any other unit. You don’t repair a fungible item — you replace it, because nothing about the individual one is worth preserving.

I’ve spent two decades arguing the opposite for a living. That the record has attributes. That identity is the thing you can’t reconstruct once you’ve lost it. That the expensive failures are almost never the loud ones; they’re the quiet ones where somebody decided a thing was generic when it wasn’t.

I don’t think I chose that work because of a room on the second floor. But I know exactly why the word lands on me the way it does.

We left and started attending somewhere else immediately. That part I’m glad about — we needed to be in a church instead of at one.

And then I sat in a pew and did nothing for years.

I didn’t volunteer. Didn’t sign up. Didn’t raise my hand for anything. We picked seats where we wouldn’t be noticed and we weren’t. If you’d asked me at the time I’d have said we were busy, or that we were resting, or that it was somebody else’s turn. What was actually true is that I’d learned it was safer to be no one in particular.

My desire to help people never changed. What changed was needing to get paid to practice my faith.

Here’s the part I only see clearly years later.

There was a man on that staff — the senior adults pastor, in his seventies and full of life, the kind of person who’d already survived everything I was in the middle of. I knew him. I liked him. I never once thought of him as someone I might learn from, because he worked with the old people and I worked with the kids and in my head those were different countries.

He’d wanted to take me under his wing. Wanted to, thought about it, and decided against it — because he didn’t believe I’d accept.

He was almost certainly right. Whatever version of that offer he was drafting in his head, I’d have heard it as a critique, thanked him, and kept walking. He read me accurately. That’s the thing that sits in my chest. He read me accurately and the accuracy is exactly what stopped him.

He died my first year there. His wife told me about it after he was gone.

So I ask.

It’s not complicated and it isn’t a program. When I can tell somebody’s struggling — at work, at church, a guy I know — I say the thing out loud. What’s going on. Tell me about it. What can I actually do. If they’ll let me, I tell them what I see, as kindly as I can manage, which is not always as kindly as I intend.

Some of them want it. Some of them look at me like I’ve asked to see their tax returns. I’ve stopped trying to predict which.

That’s the whole reason I say it out loud. A man once had the answer to my twenty-two-year-old problem and kept it to himself, and he had good reasons, and I never got to be the one who decided.

Summer Moon

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

I took today off work. Nothing on the other end of it. No appointment, no trip, no reason I could have written down if somebody asked me for one.

Up at eight. At Summer Moon by nine. It’s my favorite coffee shop— the drip is good enough that you don’t do anything to it.

I sat for an hour. Phone and iPad on the table. Put music on, did my Bible study, got the picture posted. That was the entire agenda and it was done in twenty minutes.

The other forty I just sat there.

I didn’t notice I was relaxed. I noticed what I wasn’t doing.

On a normal morning I check my phone the way you check a mirror walking past one — not for anything in particular, just to see. Notifications. Something might have come in. Something might need me in the next four minutes. It doesn’t register as stress while it’s happening. It’s the shape of the day, and you don’t feel the shape of a day any more than you feel your own posture.

This morning the phone sat face up on the table and I left it there.

I did open email twice. Both times there was nothing. Nothing was the right answer, and I put it back down.

What I missed wasn’t rest exactly. I sleep fine. It was the stillness — music in a room where nobody knows me, and no requirement to think hard about any of it.

It’s been a few months. I don’t need it often. Every so often is plenty, which is probably why it takes me this long to remember it’s available.

My wife knew where I was. Nobody else did.

Empty or Clear?

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

I’ve written something here every day since January 1st.

The plan was operational. Capture the year while I was inside it — what I did, what worked, what the numbers said. A log. I’m a data guy; logging is a reflex.

Somewhere around spring it stopped being a log. The entries got longer and quieter and started arriving at things I hadn’t meant to say out loud. I’d sit down to record a day and end up wrestling something that had been sitting in me for years, unexamined, waiting for somebody to give it two hundred words and a deadline.

That turned out to be the actual value of the thing. Not the record. The wrestling.

Two hundred days in, here’s the question I’ve been circling.

I’m not out of things to say. I want to be clear about that, because “I’ve run out” is the easy story and it isn’t true. What I’m wondering is whether they need to be said every day.

Those are different problems with very different solutions.

If I’m out of material, the answer is to quit. If the daily cadence has finished the job it was hired for, the answer is something else entirely — and I don’t know what that is yet.

What it feels like tonight is that my head might finally be clear.

There was a lot in there on January 1st. Twenty years of half-thoughts, arguments I never finished having, ideas I’d carried around so long they’d stopped being ideas and turned into furniture. Writing every day emptied a lot of that out. Some of it turned into essays. Most of it just needed saying once so it would quit taking up space.

And now I’m looking at the back half of the year wondering if the job has changed. Whether the work isn’t emptying anymore but filling — read more, sit with things longer, let something develop before it gets a headline stapled to it and shipped by 9pm.

You can’t pour out of an empty pitcher. You also can’t tell the difference between an empty pitcher and a clean one without looking.

I do know a few things.

This has been the most stimulating year of my life. I got more done than I have in any twelve months I can remember, and more than that, I engaged with more — turned over more ideas, chased more of them down, argued with more of them.

I’m also a better writer than I was in January, and I can point at exactly why. Two hundred repetitions. I can cut into a topic faster now. I can find the middle of it and say it plainly instead of circling for three paragraphs hoping to land. That didn’t come from insight. It came from sitting down again.

And the growth was always the point. I’d love a thousand people to read this. That would be great. But the reason I’m here at 10:40 at night trying to bring something worth reading to a page is that the trying does something to me. It doesn’t work every day. It works enough.

I never expected to be 47 and still asking what I want to do when I grow up.

Except that’s not the question anymore, and I think that’s the actual news. At 25 the question is what will I become. At 47, with a career and a family and a garage full of projects and more capability than time, the question is smaller and harder:

What do I keep doing, and what do I stop?

I don’t have that answer. But I notice it’s the first year I’ve been in a position to have to ask it — which means all the accumulating finally added up to something with weight, and weight is what forces a choice.

Two hundred days of writing didn’t hand me the answer.

It got the room quiet enough to hear the question.