There is just something about writing. Lots of somethings, technically. And the odd thing is that I love most of it. Or maybe not odd. I've never been in anyone else's head, so I wouldn't know.
Putting words down, getting the stories out of my head that have been clamoring for attention for the last way-too-many years. Even the editing is fun. But sometimes I come up against a logjam known as "real life" and I have to pull back and take stock.
Two years ago I quit my job--two years ago August 5th. Somehow, miraculously the money that was intended to last me a year has lasted nearly two.
I've accomplished a great deal, but here I am at the crossroads that I never wanted to reach. Next week I start job hunting.
I've faced this decision every month since I hit my year mark--do I need to go back to work? And every month, with a great deal of divine help, I'm scraped together enough for the following month. Every time, the decision to stop writing and return to work has been accompanied by panic. This time I'm pretty calm. It doesn't exactly feel right, but it doesn't feel wrong either. So I'll carry it through.
But last night I was having dreams about trying to rescue kids who jumped from high places, being shoved into the oven (wicked witch style), watching superheroes die when it was my job to protect them and trying to educate women in a Moslem country. There's cooking, childcare, security and education. I guess my brain doesn't want to go into any of those fields, and I don't blame it. I don't either.
Nor do I want to go back to my old career, although I have an open invitation to return any time I like.
I guess I'll figure it out. Life is like that.