Cubicles were invariably designed to stunt creativity.  Have you ever tried following a creative train of thought for more than one or two minutes while sitting in a cubicle?  It’s impossible, and I do believe that is the point.  The ability of others to walk by and view everything you are doing, the incessant ringing of the phone – and not just your phone but every phone within a three cubicle radius, the neutral colored walls that you have desperately tried to cover up with funny comics and photos create a piecemeal ode to a life outside of the cube.  It’s distracting, all of it.  During the day, your brain receives no respite from the staunch work environment and the creative half is exhausted by the end of the day.  I sit in my cube, thinking of great subjects for short stories but cannot follow them for an extended length of time.  When I return to the idea after speaking to the spawn of Satan on the phone and inputting boring notes that no one would willingly spend time reading, the thread is gone.  Maybe I can remember bits and pieces, but not the whole concept.  I end up dismissing it as silly or uninspired.  If I’m lucky, I can jot down the thought quickly on a piece of paper and stuff it into my pocket, making sure no one sees me attempting to do anything other than stare blankly at my computer.  

Recently, I had a series of what I would consider brilliant ideas.  They were great and I had to capture them.  Since they come only in spurts at work and last for an extremely short time, I struggled to type them quickly into a text application, constantly minimizing to prevent suspicion from the managers.  I was elated at the end of the day to be able to print out these ideas and take them with me, to nurture them in a more positive environment.  When I hit the print button on the application, my archaic computer froze.  Trying desperately to minimize the program, it stubbornly refused and then turned the program into a blank white box.  The printer did not acknowledge the command, but I was sure it would do so as soon as I left, leaving behind a paper trail of non work-related ramblings.  Then I would really be busted.  I almost had a heart attack.  I was running between the computer and the printer, desperately trying to fix the connection.  I managed to open up the Network Settings and discovered that the printer was not ready to print anything and had no recollection of my attempt.  So I only had a minor conniption when my text file refused to open and I had no choice but to close without saving.  All of those beautiful ideas were lost in cyberspace.  Never again would I trust my work computer with the most valuable thoughts I have during the day.  The work computer is now sentenced to a lifetime of unoriginal text and data entry.  I will not forget the transgression but I suppose I can forgive.  After all, spending every day in a cube makes everyone a little ornery.

I never really thought that I would be spending everyday in a cubicle when I was little.  I don’t really think anyone does.  In fact, I would venture to guess that the notion of a cubicle would be very disagreeable to children.  It sounds a bit like prison.  Actually, it sounds exactly like prison.  Think about it.  You anxiously await messages from the outside, and most come in the form of funny forwards or email updates from friends.  You dream about nightly visitations with your partner and your kids.  Your employer dictates what you can and cannot do on a daily basis, just like jail.  And we read these articles about the outsourced jobs in India.  The locals who are accepting these jobs are buckling under the stresses of the cubicle environment.  It’s stressful and exhausting – even more so when you don’t really speak the same language as the customers; it’s really and truly unnatural to spend hour upon hour each day confined to chairs pushed under desks with your hands frantically grazing the home row keys.  It’s no wonder everyone is fat and has carpel tunnel syndrome.  It’s inevitable when you live the cubicle lifestyle.

I always knew I wanted to be a writer, but I also know that no one has written the great American novel while sitting in a cubicle.  A coffee shop – yes.  A beautiful park – yes.  A gray cubicle with no natural light – no.  It is simply impossible.  After years in a cubicle, I find that while I cannot think at work, I also cannot suppress my desire to write.  Short stories are my favorite thing to write.  I suppose I have a short attention span when it comes to my characters.  I love them dearly, but only for a short time or for a brief moment in their lives.  Maybe my short attention span can be traced back the cubicle environment, where you are constantly interrupted and thoughts are invariably cut short.  Maybe I am just a product of the cube.  And that’s a scary, scary thought.