The Beginning

I'm still calling myself a writer.

Today at the salon, I told my stylist that I'm planning to focus more on my writing this year. 

"Oh, cool." she breezed. "What sort of stuff do you write?"

I stammered, racking my brain for an accurate answer. I eventually formed a couple of sentences: 

"I've done some web writing, so I'd like to do more of that. Maybe I'll write a book!"  

The truth is, it's been years since I've written with any regularity. Adult responsibilities reared their ugly heads somewhere around 2003 and they haven't let up since. 

Books and advice columns on the subject insist that a real writer doesn't let anything stop her. She carves out writing time wherever she has to, whether that means getting up super early or staying up super late. It doesn't matter if she has a full-time job, or half a dozen kids, or elderly parents to take care of. She makes writing a priority.  

Uh huh.

Writing was all I wanted do when I was a kid. I have a box tucked away in our office, packed to the brim with poems, and short stories, and synopses for novels I assumed I would write someday. There are handwritten notebooks and yellowed print-outs from a time before fonts were a thing. So many attempts at greatness, layered by year. Fossils.

They're remnants of an era when my responsibilities ended at 2:30 PM each day, with the school buzzer. When you're a kid, you take for granted the oodles of free time at your disposal. You have time to play, and relax, and breathe. You have time to think.

I work 40 hours a week as a graphic designer. This is by no means a strenuous living. I'm at my desk by 8:00 AM, I spend most of my day staring at a computer screen, and at 4:30 PM I get to leave. It's not exactly physically taxing, but I still feel drained when I come home. 

I work in an open cubicle next to both the copier and the kitchen, in an office of about a dozen people. Everyone who walks past gets a full view of my work space. They can see me working, or drinking my tea, or eating my lunch, or blowing my nose. They can see me, and they can comment.

I'm not an unfriendly sort. Most days I like having a quick chat about Breaking Bad with our production manager, or discussing dollar store mugs with a sales rep. What bothers me is that the frequency of these occurrences is pretty much out of my hands. Anyone can wander over and start gabbing whenever they want, regardless of what I want.

I don't like it when I'm in the middle of designing a proof and the salesperson who requested it interrupts me to critique an element I'm not finished with. I don't like it when the receptionist leans in and coos "what's wrong?" because I've let my smile falter for half a second. I don't like it when, moments after I've turned the radio up to listen to a song I haven't heard in ages, a particularly peppy coworker jaunts over and cheerfully rambles through the whole thing.

In a nutshell, I don't like spending the bulk of each day surrounded by people I didn't choose.

They're perfectly nice people, but that's sort of beside the point. I don't like the lack of control I have over my day. I wish I could finish a thought without a rush order or a staff meeting or a conversation ambush getting in the way. Each day feels like a game of Whack-a-Mole that only stops when I walk out the door. I get home, and whatever time is left in the day gets devoted to recharging. (I also have to make dinner and do dishes because adults have to do that stuff.)

I've held down four jobs since 2003 and they have all felt exactly like this.

In 2009, I took an extended break from working to go back to school for a couple of years. This choice was good for my mental and emotional well-being and growth, but my bank account took a hit, which meant going right back to work when my program ended. I make a couple bucks more per hour than I used to, but nothing close to what I thought I would be earning by age 35.

I had a lot of promise once, so it's hard not to feel like a failure these days. I am all too aware that nothing will change unless I take some sort of chance. So here goes.

Thanks to an incredibly supportive wife and the remnants of a wedding fund we hardly touched, I'm going to be taking a break from the workforce. I'll be a stay-at-home wife, cooking and keeping on top of the household chores. I'll also be writing, and pitching to websites, and trying to get a book published. Maybe more than one. My goal is to build myself the career I want, using my own two hands. 

It's a calculated risk; we've planned and budgeted carefully for it. We've socked away a substantial emergency fund, as well as plenty of savings to supplement the single income we'll be living on. We've built a safety net wide enough to satisfy both of us.

My last day of work will be in April. From that point on, I'll have about a year to make something happen. The prospect is equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. What if I fail? What if I succeed?

One year to make a dream come true. One year and no excuses left.

I'm looking at you, April. Let's do this.