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.