Official

Several years ago, I lost a long-time job. As much as I hated this particular job and my bosses, and the lack of morale that had permeated the building, I was still in shock the day they called me in to tell me my services were no longer needed. First I laughed, long and loud, right in front of them. They sat and stared politely, if not a bit bewildered. Then, days later, when the reality of it finally sunk into my brain, I had a mini-panic attack while doing laundry. In the middle of throwing a load of wet clothes into the dryer, I became chilled and dizzy. My chest felt tight and I had to sit down. My whole life, my identity, had revolved around that job. What the hell was I going to do? It wasn't just about money, there was another adult in the house, still gainfully employed. I had been employed in one career, and one career only, since graduating from college in 1981. It was the only thing I knew how to do, and I'd always felt that I did it rather well. As working mom, it was also the perfect career to help me meet my daughter's needs, too.
I wasn't trained to do anything else and I was scared.


As it turned out, I was out of work for almost a year. But it was a good thing because during that time, my grandmother was dying and I went home to help my family. They had taken care of the old woman for all the years I was gone, hundreds of miles away, and now I had the chance to ease some of their load. I also brought along a journal, the thought being that I could finally get some writing down on paper. Writing; I was always too busy, to unsure of myself to really give it a try. And I'd graduated with a degree in Journalism.
I managed to put together some nice little paragraphs, snippets really, about my grandma and my family. Trying to make it all segue into an interesting tale, or essay, was another story. It was dawning on me why so many of the people I knew who called themselves writers had to take on other jobs to survive.
I signed up for a writing workshop and after eight weeks, managed to finish two essays. Both were eventually published in two separate anthologies.
Did this qualify me as an official writer? To date, my writing skills have earned me grand total of forty dollars. In my mind, that doesn't sound too professional. But I kept at it, it was fun, therapeutic even. I wrote my first short piece of fiction, a love story about a young couple and naturally, tragedy ensued. It's been three years since I started it and I'm still re-writing, and I even managed to find another job, one that offers a regular paycheck. At some point, it may be time to say farewell to my characters, Sam and Sophia, and start fresh with a brand new story.
My first full week as a fifty year old woman and I'm disappointed to admit that I've not achieved my goal of finishing a novel by the half century mark. Well, actually, that's not quite true. A couple of years ago I participated in National Novel Writing month. It takes place every year in the month of November. The goal is to finish a fifty thousand word manuscript, and that's exactly what I managed to do. I even have the downloaded certificate, my award, to prove I was capable of quantity, not quality.
And so, for the right here and right now, I will keep plugging away at this blog...and keep a journal at my side.