I enjoy the sense of accomplishment I get from working. But the enjoyment stops there. I do not like feeling stressed and anxious and worried. Nothing can do that to me quite like work can. I dream about work when I’m not there. I worry about about getting behind. I feel stressed if I don’t execute everything flawlessly. I have impossible expectations for myself which makes me feel like there is no option but to quit and try something else: until the exact same feelings build up and I start over: an endless cycle of quitting while I’m ahead and then starting again. I always want to be ahead, never behind.
I dream of the day I can pack working an 8-to-5 in. But I know it’s not realistic. Steve and I bought this house as a dual-income couple with expectation of remaining a dual-income family. I bought my desk on credit that I have to pay off by working. It all seems so convoluted: working so I can enjoy my hobbies but not enjoying my hobbies because I’m working. Steve tells me I don’t know what I want, which is true. He tells me I would be bored if I didn’t work and that the novelty would quickly wear off like it does for everything else.
I’m afraid he knows me better than I know myself. So then the only solution is to be a writer. To work in my home at my desk, with no one to answer to but myself. My only Excel spreadsheet is the log of poems submitted to literary journals. I would type a nonsense blog until I got my creative juices flowing enough to write something else. I would go to Starbucks when I had writer’s block and if that didn’t cure it, I would shop for home decor among the clocks and framed art and vases of Garden Ridge, Marshall’s, and JCPenney.
I would read on our chair with matching ottoman in the corner by the fireplace with Tucker snuggled up next to me under a blanket. And somehow, checks would come. I would get rejection letters, sure, but few and far between. For the most part, I would submit my writing and an editor somewhere would think it was brilliant and needed to be shared. That is my dream. Lofty, sure: but aim high. I heard on the Apprentice that “genius is perseverance in disguise.” Who says the perserverance has to be at my 8-to-5? Maybe, just maybe, if I persevere at my hobby, I can turn that into my career. I think someone somewhere has done it before.