Notice

I handed in my resignation this week.

I've had many jobs over the years and I've quit them all, sometimes in less-than-professional ways (e.g. sending a cowardly email following exactly one day of work). Even on the few occasions where I gave proper notice, I hastily dropped my "I quit!" letter on the boss's chair and then scurried home, postponing the awkwardness to the next morning.

I'm 35 now, and I've been at my current job for nearly five years. A hit-and-run letter wasn't going to cut it this time. So I marched upstairs, closed the office door behind me, and asked my boss if he had a minute.  He did.

T-24

I have a small desk calendar at work. It's one of those triangular ones where you can see the same month on either side.  On the front, I've noted things like doctor's appointments and holidays and dates when coworkers won't be in.  But on the back, in secret, the countdown is on.

My last day of work will be April 8th. This date was chosen way back in December, when my wife Kate and I decided this would be the year to put our scary writing plan into action. On my first day back at work after the holidays, I uncapped my pen and, working backwards, I noted my "days left" on each square of the calendar. Yesterday's square told me I have 24 days left to spend at this job.

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: