But I Want to Be a Writer

I went out for drinks to explain myself the other night. To say why I was leaving. To bridge some of the awkwardness that had flooded up between me and the person who was the main reason I stayed put for four years.

I suppose, to some, it might not make sense—leaving this job when I was up for a promotion. It might not make sense that I am losing my authority, my autonomy, to go from running a small corner of the world to being one of many. E used to joke that I was an “underboss.” No more. In all honesty, I have no desire whatsoever to climb any kind of corporate ladder. Yes, it’s true that when I’m working, I work hard. I am seriously dedicated (too dedicated?), to the point where my life has suffered from it, to the point that knowing I’m the one ultimately responsible for something makes me want to be sure it gets done no matter what, and this may be why a certain person wanted me to stay. She said she’s been in denial; she hasn’t even posted the job opening yet. But just because I work hard when I am there doesn’t mean I want the job to be my life. It can’t be my life. I want to be a writer, I told her. There was an understanding, the more we talked, she said she could see why I could give this up, because I have something on the side.

But don’t you see, that’s the whole point! My writing should not be what I do on the side. It was never supposed to be a hobby. My job should be what I do on the side to have the means to keep writing.

Now, that’s all well and good. But with yet another rejection letter today (the news came while writing this post; it was for something I really wanted; I asked E to throw the letter away so I don’t have to set my eyes on it when I get home) I wonder how delusional I’ve become. Still, the intention is there. That gives me a few writer points, no?



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