I quit my job.
It was only supposed to be a one year thing anyway, but they asked me to come back. I considered it, and, between my husband and myself, we decided it wasn’t worth it. The income didn’t justify the strain on the family, and I desperately wanted to get back to writing, especially knowing I could do it full time now (all kiddies being consigned to public school). We have a choice right now, and I chose working for my home and from my home.
It still feels like a leap of faith, though, here on this second day back to school, as much as taking the day job in the first place did. Maybe that’s the nature of all new beginnings. But it feels like there’s a lot riding on this particular jump: I’ve made a conscious choice to be a writer over having a steady income. The path has been cleared for me. The question is, will I actually produce anything memorable? Worthwhile? Marketable?
Already in the last 36 hours my resolve has been tested. House guests, homework, cleaning, cooking, doctor’s appointment, grocery shopping. All the put-off projects, not to mention TED talks and Facebook photos. So many ways to use all these hours suddenly at my disposal. I promised myself I would actually schedule in writing time as I would any other engagement on my calendar, so that it doesn’t end up at the bottom of the list again. I’m doing that. But I’m a little surprised at how much work it is to make myself set aside all the other things I could do for the thing I really want to do. No matter how deeply I want it, in the moment, it’s still hard.
Maybe that’s because I haven’t established a habit yet. Some would accuse me of lacking passion. I can only hope that with time and the evolution of my projects an unquenchable thirst will arise for this task I have chosen. But I have a sneaking suspicion that James was right, that faith without works is dead, that I will have to be vigilant and diligent if I expect to pull this off.
Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, this thought does not discourage me. Instead it inspires a fierce sense of purpose, like something is growing deep in my core that at once must be protected and unleashed. And, I feel just a little queasy, as if on a cliff, with the wind in my face, just ready to fly.
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