My New Job

Today I begin my new job, and it’s the one I’ve wanted all my life. With both kids now in school full time and my copy editing gig only taking up morning hours, I’m finally going to officially make writing a job.

In the last eight years I’ve gotten by on late-night writing sessions hours after my sleep-deprived brain has stopped working and on half-hour scraps before school pick-ups. I’ve brainstormed while jogging between appointments, while cuddling kids who are refusing to sleep, while washing dishes. I’ve resorted to dictating verses of picture books into my phone at playgrounds and grocery stores lines, probably convincing passersby that I’m a lunatic with some sort of rhyme-related disorder.

That’s no way to actually produce creative work. It shows, too, in both my output and its quality. I end up feeling frustrated because I have stories to tell and no time to tell them, and I know I can do better than what I see on the page. I just need time when there’s peace and I’m wide awake and I know I don’t have to run out the door in 15 minutes. Now I have that.

But I have to make it official to justify it. This isn’t a hobby, it’s not some little project I’m working on or something fun to play with in my free time. This is what I want to be when I grow up. It’s ridiculous that I have to justify it to myself, but I feel a nagging sense of guilt at the prospect of spending time selfishly doing something I love when I could (should) be doing a “real” (paying) job. I’m not going to psychoanalyze myself here, but I know I’m not the only one with this complex. I’m fighting it as well as I can.

Today I have three hours before I need to pick up the kids. There’s laundry to do, but it can wait. I could attempt to wrestle the book/game/craft/storage room into some semblance of order, but I’m just going to close my eyes when I walk past it. I need to deal with filing and bills, but not right now. Today I am going to write.