In recent weeks there's been a bit of a Twitter discussion (from private accounts, otherwise I'd post links to the discussion itself) around the question of Writers Who Have Day Jobs versus Writers Who Don't, and how that makes for differences in lifestyle, differences in perception, etc. I mention it today only because I've been thinking about my own good fortune this past year to have stumbled on a day job that pays quite well, and in so doing has allowed me to pay off some debts and get my feet back underneath me, all of those things that I would have scoffed at ten years ago when I was twenty and filled with all kinds of Starry-Eyed Ideas about Poverty and Artistic Strife and the necessity of Hard Times to the betterment of one's artistic temperament. Blah blah blah.
I spent most of my twenties thinking that being able to write full time was the ultimate dream. I dreamed about it. I whined about it on this blog. One day, I thought, one day I'll be able to start a week sitting at my desk, with my cup of tea, ready to just spew out words. And that's all I will do. And it will be fantastic.
Increasingly now, I feel like getting older is just a process of realizing how silly I continue to be, even when I think I'm being Downright Serious.
(Perhaps especially then.)
When I started working at the hospital, almost two years ago now (holy smokes), one of my friends wrote me a great email about it. A hospital! she said. People are born and die and go through all kinds of dark nights of the soul in hospitals. What a great place for a writer to be. Besides -- you don't want to be surrounded by artsy types all the time, do you? Why would you want to surround yourself with people who are exactly like you all of the time?
It was just the right kind of slap in the face. A gentle one, for sure, but a slap nonetheless. Just a few days ago I passed the one-year anniversary of my placement in my current unit, and the memory of arriving on the unit a year ago, unsure and nervous, made me smile for most of the day. The things I've seen in this job! The people I've met, the stories I've encountered. It's made my life so much bigger than I ever thought it could be. It's definitely made my life bigger in ways that would not have happened had I spent the majority of the part year working as a full time writer.
Which is not, to be clear, to say that full-time writing does not make one grow or learn. Far from it. When I was studying with John Gould back at UVic in 2002, he told us that one of the great things about writing was the opportunity that it afforded for the writer to really delve deep into a particular topic, a particular way of life. "You have license," he said, "to learn and become all kinds of different things, different people. You can, if you choose, become a mini expert on a wide variety of things." Those friends of mine who are full-time writers now are perfect examples of this. They delve deep into things for short, intense periods of time. They soak up knowledge on an exponential scale. They are inspirations in every possible way.
But it's been good for me, this day job. It's made me focus. It's brought me the kind of financial stability I only dreamed about. And it's brought me so many stories, stories I would never have otherwise imagined. Sure, it can be stressful at times, and at other times hugely monotonous. It's not a glamourous job, by any stretch of the imagination. But -- take heed, Twentysomething Amanda -- there's something to be said for financial stability, and stepping out of your insufferable Writing-Is-The-Only-Thing-I-Want-To-Do-EVER circle of thought. It'll make you grow in ways you never imagined.
Big hug and thanks to that friend of mine who wrote that email, all those months ago. She was so right.
I spent most of my twenties thinking that being able to write full time was the ultimate dream. I dreamed about it. I whined about it on this blog. One day, I thought, one day I'll be able to start a week sitting at my desk, with my cup of tea, ready to just spew out words. And that's all I will do. And it will be fantastic.
Increasingly now, I feel like getting older is just a process of realizing how silly I continue to be, even when I think I'm being Downright Serious.
(Perhaps especially then.)
When I started working at the hospital, almost two years ago now (holy smokes), one of my friends wrote me a great email about it. A hospital! she said. People are born and die and go through all kinds of dark nights of the soul in hospitals. What a great place for a writer to be. Besides -- you don't want to be surrounded by artsy types all the time, do you? Why would you want to surround yourself with people who are exactly like you all of the time?
It was just the right kind of slap in the face. A gentle one, for sure, but a slap nonetheless. Just a few days ago I passed the one-year anniversary of my placement in my current unit, and the memory of arriving on the unit a year ago, unsure and nervous, made me smile for most of the day. The things I've seen in this job! The people I've met, the stories I've encountered. It's made my life so much bigger than I ever thought it could be. It's definitely made my life bigger in ways that would not have happened had I spent the majority of the part year working as a full time writer.
Which is not, to be clear, to say that full-time writing does not make one grow or learn. Far from it. When I was studying with John Gould back at UVic in 2002, he told us that one of the great things about writing was the opportunity that it afforded for the writer to really delve deep into a particular topic, a particular way of life. "You have license," he said, "to learn and become all kinds of different things, different people. You can, if you choose, become a mini expert on a wide variety of things." Those friends of mine who are full-time writers now are perfect examples of this. They delve deep into things for short, intense periods of time. They soak up knowledge on an exponential scale. They are inspirations in every possible way.
But it's been good for me, this day job. It's made me focus. It's brought me the kind of financial stability I only dreamed about. And it's brought me so many stories, stories I would never have otherwise imagined. Sure, it can be stressful at times, and at other times hugely monotonous. It's not a glamourous job, by any stretch of the imagination. But -- take heed, Twentysomething Amanda -- there's something to be said for financial stability, and stepping out of your insufferable Writing-Is-The-Only-Thing-I-Want-To-Do-EVER circle of thought. It'll make you grow in ways you never imagined.
Big hug and thanks to that friend of mine who wrote that email, all those months ago. She was so right.
It's nice to read that you are happy where you are and that this place brings forth more stories for you.
ReplyDeleteYou have a good friend.
Belated thanks for this, Mary! :)
Deletexo