WORKING IN JAPAN: PT. 40

Not Working in Japan

I’ve done nothing towards finding a job. Jack squat.

Instead of that, I’ve started writing a new book called Lazy Jack. It’s about a family man with a job and various annoying commitments, who decides he can’t be bothered. So, he stops doing anything. The cessation of activity on Jack’s part is a gradual process, beginning with slacking off and neglecting his personal hygiene. Then it advances to getting fired and abandoning the proper use of English grammar.

The main character, Jack, becomes an indolent wretch, ignoring his kids and aggravating his wife. I don’t know what the novel means, but, if nothing else, it has certainly started to exist. Perhaps anyone reading it will be none the wiser when they close the final page.

I think about art often, in particular our reasons for making it. Many times, when putting a story together, I have tried to imbue it with layers of meaning. I feel an obligation to weave together thematic and literary devices into some sort of coherent and intellectually seductive tissue, though I probably always fail.

I’ve often felt, on a gut level, that these attempts at artistic depth were disingenuous and had nothing to do with what I wanted to say. This is because what I want to say is simple, and usually amounts to things like ‘Don’t bully people’ and ‘Being nice is good’. Or ‘Love is very important’. Either that, or I want my books to generate some kind of atmosphere, which I reckon is enough in itself.

Apart from the book, I’ve been trading. One day, I made about two months’ worth of train station cleaning wages in one trade. That was a lucky one but there have been some other good moments. This is making me a trickle of money, which I hope will continue. But trading is difficult and it’s highly possible I’ve just been lucky. I might be teetering along the edge of a financial cliff.

Then, there’s the subtitling. I have a gig adding English subtitles to an upcoming documentary about Japan. It’s demanding but satisfying work, the kind of mentally-stimulating brain task I cynically assume will be eliminated by AI. Getting paid from several types of work while staying at home is, in terms of well-being and mental health, superior to commuting daily and sitting in a stuffy office, at least for me.

So, at present, there’s a bit of English teaching, some trading, a subtitling project, and a few book sales on Kindle, rather than a regular job. And I almost forgot the film script I sold. I am due a bit of money from that, and a substantial amount more if it’s actually made.

Getting my name on a film would be a dream come true, even if it isn’t good. I want it to be good but that’s out of my hands, and, to be honest, if I can get paid from it, I wouldn’t be devastated if the quality is questionable. Perhaps it can be one of those cheapo one-location straight-to-streaming horror deals with 5.2 on iMDB. That would be a thing to tell people: ‘I was tangentially involved in an unknown B-movie’.

Either way, I am making ends meet and wondering how long that can last. Like I said, I’ve done nothing about finding another proper job but, if I do, I’m thinking either a convenience store or cleaning hotel rooms. The latter seems like a fair option, given that it takes place indoors and involves physical motion. I might lose some pounds while working out of the sun.

Finally, I am editing List of Goals, another novel I wrote about a sociopath who decides to wreck the lives of people around him. He writes a list of ten things to do, each more awful than the last, and sets about achieving them. These objectives involve causing hurt, pain and inconvenience to neighbours, family members, strangers, and colleagues, and he works through them while degenerating into mental chaos.

The general theme of my life, then, seems to be lack of direction. I’m happy with that, with not having a career, but there’s a certain level of weird guilt that comes along with it. On some level, I feel bad for not having a career and I’m trying to work out if that’s because deep down I want a career or because I’ve been conditioned by society to think that a person should have one. Many of my friends have white-collar jobs and talk like they like them and also don’t like them. They have these triumphs from time to time and say they like their work, but often come over as being stressed and preoccupied, kind of like their brains are running a bunch of work-related background programmes even when they aren’t on the clock.

I figure that one of a few things with happen: 1) I’ll get good at trading and/or make money from creative projects and just kind of bum around, 2) The aforementioned things are pipe dreams and I’ll end up cleaning or something so I can afford food while avoiding corporate life, or 3) I’ll fail at trading and writing and cave to my guilt about not having a career, thus winding up back at a fucking desk making fucking PowerPoints and spreadsheets for a bunch of people who will be bored by reading them.

Wish me luck, and have fun out there.

The previous part of this blog is here.

The next part (41) is here.

If you want to read one of my books, please check out Meet Mark, a novel about an incel in love.