My next move
I have a confession. I’ve been a closeted writer for years. From my early days of tiny-keyed diaries to my hormonally-charged high school journals, I’ve written when I was happy and sad; in love and in hate; anxious, worried and nervous. Sometimes I actually had something to say, sometimes nothing at all; but for me, every entry was important at the time.
College courses and dating mishaps took precedence when I got older; this was almost immediately followed by marriage ups and downs. Although four children slowed the process a bit, I continued, the absolute craziness of life with a houseful adding fodder and precious memories to the mix. Basically, life marched forward and I never stopped expressing my thoughts, desires, hopes and dreams. Overtime, I also wrote short stories, started a couple of books and even won an award or two. I just kept writing, using anything available, from legal pads to store receipts, my piles of musings becoming hoarder-like.
In February, 2010, things changed once again. This time, I left my job of 21 years. But I wasn’t too concerned at the time. I needed to move on and frankly, I was excited to be schedule-less. I couldn’t wait to write on a more full-time basis. Life was destined to be sweeter than ever before, and I was ready to embrace it.
First and foremost, I had two books on the back burner that were nagging at me. One, a fictional boy-meets-girl, boy-disappoints-girl, girl-wises-up one, I wrote more than five years ago. The characters, frozen in time, needed some careful thawing and updating. The other, a young adult mystery, which I wrote with my daughter, was equally cold, but more salvageable. Additionally, I had a website (this one in fact) that had seen better days.
That was all well and good. I knew I could fill my time with polishing older works and posting blogs. But the one thing I hadn’t thought about when I was doing my leaving-the-job happy dance, was money. Although my husband brought home enough to keep us afloat, his salary alone didn’t allow for anything beyond the necessities. I needed a plan to bring in some dough and I needed it yesterday.
And this is where things started to get more complicated. I had to figure out my next move.
Going through the change”s”: How I got started Freelancing, and never looked back
When I was 25, I never thought I would ever be 50. Honestly, 50 was old, like petrified wood and worn-out, holey socks. 50 was wrinkly and out of shape with creaky joints, and 50 groaned and complained and made irritable noises from various bodily regions. 50 sucked and I wanted no part of it.
And yet, I wasn’t totally naive about growing older. I knew I would eventually age in years, I just didn’t want to change physically. And for the most part, I think I’ve fought a gallant battle, and on occasion, I’ve been victorious.
But in reaching the big 5-0, suddenly everything that worked to keep this machine of mine operating in high gear no longer provided the same results: like exercise and eating right (chocolate doesn’t count). Nothing I did had the same impact as before. My body was basically pissing me off, and still does.
But I didn’t give up. Instead I started stepping up my walking to several miles a week and opting for salads instead of sandwiches (which is tough). Daily, I’m making an effort to bring back my bikini figure (or at least keep me from hiding in mumus). Basically, for my own peace of mind (and shameless vanity) I haven’t given up on looking younger, and I don’t plan to anytime soon.
But the physical changes were just part of hitting 50 for me; 50 also changed who I was, something I totally wasn’t expecting. And this change has been a bit harder.
For 21 years I worked in a job I thought I would retire from, (or drop dead at – whatever came first). I was good at what I did – which is not bragging, just facts. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would leave, and certainly not the way I did. But sometimes the fates, or the alignments of the planets or crappy horoscopes are in charge and we don’t have a lot to say about what happens. And although I left on my own accord, management manipulation was ultimately behind my final decision, which is probably why when I walked out the door for the last time, I never felt more liberated. Which is not to say I wasn’t equally scared shit-less when that what-the-hell-are-you-doing feeling rose up like bile in my throat. But, oddly enough, at the same time, I also felt like buying a round of drinks. Huh.
I think my mixed feelings were because I didn’t know if I was ready to change; but change was somehow ready for me. I had reached that sink or swim moment in my career; which is to say, if I hadn’t left, I would have exhausted myself physically, emotionally and spiritually, just treading and holding my head above water. Overall, leaving was bittersweet, like the chocolate you’re supposed to have, not the one you want to eat, but you chew and swallow anyway.
For me, change at 50 and changing at 50 were going hand-in-hand, whether I liked it or not. So, left out in the career cold for the first time in over two decades, I had to find something to do – to satisfy my time, as well as my creditors. I’d closed the door. But now I was wondering where to find the blasted open window.
I started thinking about writing.
This is a post
Just trying it out. La-de-dah.