For a majority of my adult life a dream (more accurately a goal) was to take a year off and just write. To a degree, I did that last year. I was out of work from April 2013 to (almost to the day) April 2014. I travelled around Europe and the Southern US. I wrote a lot. I made headway on two novels and made some big decisions about how I want to move forward with my work in general.
Eventually the money ran out. I lived well that year. I pampered myself and others, I worked hard and played hard. I found myself in new ways, but in the end I had to go back to the daily grind.
My new job is interesting, easy, low stress, and it pays well. I can see a path in the company I am now with or others like it, where I can move up.
It is all a means to an end though. My heart isn’t in it. I will go and do the work and shake the hands, but it’s all biding my time.
Still, I’m not detached enough not to fall into the interesting rhythms and gossips of a new office. The interactions and currencies of a new workplace are always riveting to me. It fuels the archives; new faces, new quirks for characters, names and details.
But day to day, outside work, I find myself drowning in thoughts. The inspiration is still there and lunch breaks and weekend are filled with finding time to get the words all down. The muscle of writing has been exercised every day for too long and now I’m a race horse chomping at the bit, nervous in my stable.
So that’s where I am. Still, for the time being, broke, and still hungry, which feels good. Still looking for the perfect percentages of work and writing and money. The last few months have taught me how to live a little lighter. How to shrink my monthly bills to the bare minimum. What things are actually important to me. I can move forward from there and save up and keep my eyes open for new opportunities.
And I’ll get by writing through my lunch breaks and stealing an hour at a cafe to type type my smut and maybe even my important work. And I’m learning to forgive myself the differences between the two and respect all of my words, be they dirty, silly, or profound.
I’m still hopelessly in love with myself and living my life as art and aware and amazed.