And so, if you're like me, it seems almost sacrilegious to be looking for a job.
Yes, that's right. I'm going back on the market. Because, you know, I like to eat. And have walls between myself and my mountains when I choose. And I haven't purchased new shoes in AGES!
And I find the prevalent emotion I'm feeling is confusion. Because shouldn't I be devastated that my writing hasn't paid off? Shouldn't I be railing at the universe and tearing my hair and berating myself for not working harder, faster, whatever?
But I'm not. (Okay - I'm not anymore. I did already go through that frustration, and I thank all those who have listened to me vent.)
Now, I'm actually asking myself a different question.
Is writing really my dream?
Don't get me wrong. I love writing. I love the physical act of it, and I love the creation aspect. I love the mystery and the playing with words and the way things just seem to fall into place. I love the database of characters and the time lines and the 1000 different ideas I have stored away on the computer.
What does it produce? What does it do? What is the purpose of my writing?
When I put a book in a customer's hand, I know what I'm producing. There is a tangible sense of completion and accomplishment. There is a purpose.
When I reconcile a bank statement, or file a stack of papers, or even pay a bill, there is an immediate return on the energy investment.
When I listen to a customer or client, when I do a reading, when I sing at the bedside, there is an active participation of self and other. A connection, perhaps.
When I am writing, there is none of this. Even when I know I am writing for a specific audience. Even as I am writing this. There is no active exchange. There is no expectation of return.
This is a passive connection.
And I'm thinking that, despite my love for the writing, I need more.
Is my passion, my purpose, my dream (whatever it may be) actually more active? More direct? More immediate?
Because I have had plenty of opportunity to make this work, this writing thing. Options and avenues and learning moments. And I am still here, facing a story of great busy-ness, but little satisfaction. Even taking the monetary aspect out of the picture, I have little to show for all my trying.
I can honestly say I did my best every day. I lived my truth every day. And I remember days of great joy, coming down from the writing high. I remember profound statements and moments of philosophical rightness.
But here I am. Needing more. Redoing my resume; evaluating what I want to be next.
And the answer is not writer. Or, not only writer. Maybe writing is my hobby.
Interestingly, I always made the most progress on my books when I was employed full-time outside the home.
I am more grateful for the time I was able to give to myself - to the recovery of all the events that have transformed my life these last 7 years.
I am grateful for the ability to move ahead.
The future is going to be interesting. I'm looking forward to it, and to finding out what my new dreams are.
I hope you're having a great, and satisfying, day.