I had to take another break from my novel. Life got… difficult, and I’ve needed any moments I happened upon with two free hands to pack and move, to wave goodbye to so many things, and to begin once again the hunt for a Job.
It hasn’t gone well, the hunting. I have scores of applications floating out there in the ether with no discernible end dates on their viability. I have received a few rejections, which have almost felt better than the waiting without knowing (I note this to myself for future bolstering when the rejections hit closer to my heart). If I am honest, I hate the thought of almost every job I have applied to, and I have only applied to those I told myself I could tolerate doing.
The honesty became a tangible thing 2 nights ago, like a cup of warm milk. Or more like a glass of rich, dark, spicy red wine, since we’re being honest here. It began with a disingenuously excited planning session for the grand idea of opening a restaurant with my dear friend and current life support. We discussed menu options and crowdfunding. Then baby and I took a bath break while we adults each ruminated on our ideas. We resumed the conversation after my poor wee one fell asleep in the tub and, tired as she was after a full day of “playing with the big girls,” she took no note of my friend and I continuing our quiet conversation after I settled her quickly to bed.
At some point, we clicked off the lamp and spoke by moonlight. There is something about conversations in the dark, late at night with a dear friend, that make one bravely face truths that are somehow too glaring in the light of day.
Truth is I hate the thought of a “normal” job. Not only do I hate it, I cannot see myself walking that path. I have never been able to visualize a future in which I work a conventional job. I never let this stop me from trying, I thought maybe it was just too boring to have a mental picture of. But there is one path I can see, one path I have always been able to visualize and it has only altered slightly, and in fact is even more clear to me, now that there is a precious, tiny girl to walk it with me as she grows up. This path, this picture, it gives me goosebumps, it brings tears to my eyes, it makes my heart beat fast and strong. It is pure joy, but though I see it being my life, I have never taken steps to make it my life.
I want to be a travel writer.
I want to travel the world, putting my adventures into words and being paid for it.
That is my truth.
That is my Big Scary.
Scary because most of the world thinks that is an impossible life. Scary because there is nothing else I want, nothing else even comes close. Scary because I am facing it so late and I have to not get caught up in my own self-bashing of having wasted years trying to do something else. Scary because it means putting my writing out there into the world in a very immediate sense. Scary because I must let go of the semi-false sense of security that accompanies the idea of getting a “real” job. Scary because I could really truly be happy doing something I really love and isn’t that the weirdest scary?
But I know I do deserve it.
So my courage in the dark in the comfort of a friend’s a home and a friend’s belief in me brought me to my decision.
I am doing this.
(And no, no I am not giving up on my novel, not even a little, don’t you worry.)