So now I’m a writer. Sure.
For the first time in my life an artistic tag is no mere avocation. It’s not some crazy dream or even some rational dream. I’m not pursuing it in between other gigs or after hours. The deed is not some in between meal snack.
Ain’t that swell? For now it is.
For now I’m writing full time. More than full time. I’m making some money and also compiling a humble body of work. I won’t claim to be generating a living wage, but I’m not starving, either.
For those keeping score, the accidental experiment began when I took a hike. At the end of last January I up and walked. I quit my nine-to-five after nearly 20 years of blind service. Kiss myopia goodbye.
The company recognized my exit. I’ll give them that. In honor of my double-decade dedication, they served pizza. Business insiders theorize that after 30 years’ service you get Italian beef. After 40 years you get Italian beef with peppers.
The timing turned out to be one of those happenstances that brings a shrug of the shoulders. In February I launched an online, short story subscription series. In March I began penning freelance for mercenary websites.
Since then I’ve been cranking like a hard-boiled fiend. Not exactly an experiment in terror, but an experience that’s at once maddening and liberating. In May I ground out 183 assignments in addition to three yarns for my series and a handful of posts for this blog.
This latest life trial has been in swing for only four month. Feels like longer. I’m sure not going back to the way things were, I can tell you that much.
If only I could see tomorrow. My crystal ball’s at the cleaners and I lost the ticket. Sure.