Not Applicable

I feel guilty. Pursuing a writing career is an idiotic, selfish endeavor. A fool's errand. Pure torture. Sounds fun, eh? Every day I check the classifieds and glean out four or five jobs I am qualified to do-- office work, or taking care of other people's children, or taking care of old people. I do not apply. I can blame this lack of career ambition on my burgeoning belly-- what employer in this economy would be eager to hire a pregnant woman-- or the stiff competition but the reality is that I am sticking to my dream, my goal of being a published writer.

With everyone struggling and our bank account draining I look again to the want ads. Taking yet another ten-dollar and hour job is an option for sure. I did the math once and figured out that I net about fifty dollars a week when I subtract my expenses. And that doesn’t include time away from my husband and kids and wear and tear on my body.

With submission deadlines looming for pieces not guaranteed publication, I think back longingly to a time I had a paying, slightly respectable writing job. That’s the thing with writing-- no guarantees. No certainties that anyone even cares about what I write. And yet, like a moth flying blindly and repeatedly into a porch light, bound for death, I continue the masochistic journey. Following the dream.

On days like these it seems particularly hopeless. Between moving kids about from one place to another, making breakfast, lunch, and dinner, plus dishes, laundry, bedtimes, vitamins, homework, it seems like there’s not even time to write. No writing, no publishing, no dream. I wonder what the point is of having children if I don’t get to spend time with them, care for them, love them, read to them, and become increasingly more annoyed with their endless questions. Ultimately, despite my complaints, I love my children so much. I’m even in the process of making another. It’s pretty nervy of me to continue pursuing writing with so many other responsibilities.

And yet: hope. I don’t know why I believe, but I do. I don’t know why every day I don’t give up on writing and seize an opportunity to be a receptionist or cashier or waitress. I am a writer. I’m holding fast. Every day, I have to give myself a pep talk. Today is the day I will write something compelling, remarkable, undeniable. Today is the day.