Thoughts on the idea of 'Quitting the Day Job'

Sitting quietly at my computer desk, sequestered upstairs on the third floor, still at my parents house, I'm reading a fellow bloggers', somewhat smiling, religion-filled, post (I'd say rant but in general she's too happy to rant, always picking and choosing her words that will have the least negative impact on her audience) where she's ultimately decided to quit her teaching job and live off her husbands income and the 'bonus' income of her newly minted contract with XYZ Publishing. And though her writing is simple and sweet, I can't help but snarl at her post and want to reach through my computer to hers and shake her violently, growling "What the hell is wrong with you?!" over and over again until she realizes just how lucky she is.

I want that contract. She can keep her husband, 2 year old son and hell, even the day job that I wish I could quit. I'm envious, and while I don't think religion would look highly on it, hell, that's where I am. I work, and work, and work, some more waiting for that magical day when all of my problems will be solved by writing.

But I unlike some of my fellow aspiring authors, won't ever quit my day job. It's awful, of that there is no doubt. I'm fairly convinced that by 26, I'll have my first few grey hairs, and I'll be able to follow through with my threat of billing Wal*Mart for my salon costs. My direct supervisor thinks it's funny. I think it's a real issue.

The truth is though, that even if I'm working elsewhere by the time I get my magical 'fix-it-all' contract (which it won't), I won't quit. I can't. There's a piece of me that thinks I should be working more than one job while writing. That same piece of me, also doesn't seem to think that time away with friends is important. So I routinely kick that piece between the eyes, to keep it down, like a good little ho. It keeps me sane, but still the bruised figment drives me to work like a crazy person. I have volumes of work that have never been seen. Why?

Fear. That is where this particular woman and I split. She doesn't have fear, because she trusts in the big invisible man in the sky. She lives a biblical life, for which I'm sure they've saved her the very best, white chair to do all of her afterlife writing in. Me? I'm probably going elsewhere in the afterlife, to slave away as some poor souls, decrepit muse. I feel bad for the poor slob already.

But I digress. My issues with the bloggers' pseudo whining and amazing faith in the unknown aside, fear; and all it's lovely pitfalls, is what stands between us. She's overcome it. I have not. And ultimately I am the only one to blame for that. But hold the phone if you think I'm going down the path of the whiny, empathetic sap that sits at home and writes blog posts with nothing greater than the tears of my readers to fuel me. Hell, I hope you don't ever cry at anything I write. I know this probably won't be the case, but even if you do, I promise I won't collect your tears.

Quite to the opposite, all it does is make me want to work harder. I've never been the kind of person to just let life happen. And far too often, that's what happens. Recently there's been someone in my life, recommending the teachings of Zen and how my life would be improved if I followed them. I had to half choke back a laugh, thinking 'I'm really not very good a my own faith most of the time, you want me to add daily meditations and the belief that we live one moment at a time to that? Good luck'.It seems to be doing wonders for him, but honestly, I'll stay angry and cynical, thanks. It fuels my need to be better. My drive to push past all of this and finally say "I'm published".

I'm waiting quite impatiently for a decision on a submission I sent out about a month back. One month down. Two to go. It's not about the money that the piece would provide (because flash fiction submissions never pay well, allow me to reassure you) but because I want to be able to hold out the book and open it to my page and say "Ha! Someone thought I was worth publishing!".

At the end of the day, it doesn't matter who made it in the industry. I'm envious of them. There's just something so smug about the post that made me angry. I'm happy for her, truly. But honestly. Don't take the writing world for granted. It's a cruel mistress. One that could replace a God abiding good woman with someone like me, who goes to church once in a while, and in general wouldn't make much of an angel. I'd use the halo as a Frisbee, starting up heavens very own ultimate Frisbee league. I'm a strong woman, who says fuck way too much, used to smoke, drinks with friends, and raises a soliciting eyebrow to most religious folks, wondering how they won't ask all the wrong questions to get to where they are.

Religion and writing muses are odd bunk mates in my head.

So good luck to all of you that think that writing will be a magic fix all but, thanks; I'll stay over here in reality, where I'll work just as hard if not harder to keep myself and myself afloat. I'll write until my fingers bleed and work until my feet are ready to give out. And I won't regret a moment of it.