So I did it. I quit my day job. Unfortunately it wasn’t because my books are selling like hot cakes and I’m suddenly a millionaire. That’s still in the works. But the real reason I had to quit my job is because I’m moving. Again. After almost two years of living in Florida I’ll be moving back to Texas this summer and I can’t exactly pack up my cubicle and take it with me. Not that I’d want to. Besides, it’s time for a change.
In fact, the big unknown that’s been hovering on my horizon feels sort of prophetic all of the sudden.
I’m not sure what it is. That I’m older. That I’m, in a sense, going home (well, six hours east of home). That I don’t have to spend my days analyzing data any more. That I can breathe.
Of course, some days, there’s a part of me that’s still terrified of the unknown. But most days it’s all I have to look forward to. Because even though it’s not the new start I’d been hoping for—you know making the switch to being a full time writer—it’s still a new beginning nonetheless. And that’s exciting. Because even though I’ve always believed that I’m in control of my own destiny, that everything I do today is taking me one step closer to the future I want, to the future I deserve, something about moving, about starting over in a new place, gives that philosophy a whole new fervency.
And so I’ve decided…I’m going to give myself some time. Before I look for another job, I’m going to spend a few months trying out that whole full-time author gig. Because I want to. Because I’m young. Because it’s time to be brave and walk the walk. Because I’ve been saving my money from every birthday and Christmas over the past decade for nothing in particular. And now that I finally have a reason to use it, it feels like this huge gift. The commitment I’ve made to this dream of mine, to myself, it’s a gift. Truly. And that’s how I know it’s right. Because my soul is happy and because nothing is more important than the gift’s we give ourselves.
So I’ll spend the next four months in front of my laptop, at some desk in an apartment I haven’t found yet, or in some random coffee shop, or the public library, and in the midst of swatting away every fear—that I’m wasting my time, that I’m wasting my money, that I’m selfish, that I suck—I’ll be writing. Every day. All day. I’ll be writing. And even with the risk, that still sounds absolutely perfect.