I find the responses to my new profession fascinating.
Whenever I tell people that I am writing a novel, their reactions vary by the type of mindset that they carry. Let me explain.
When I first told my mother that I was going to stay at home and write my novel she didn't take me seriously. The next time she spoke to me - which is every week - she promptly asked me how my job-hunt was going. She now asks me about my job-hunt on a weekly basis.
You see, in her mind, writing a novel isn't a real job because you don't go to an office everyday (nevermind the fact that I do go to my office everyday - it's just at home!) and you don't come home with a paycheck every month.
As much as this constant questioning infuriates me, I know she means well and she is just concerned about me covering my monthly bills and like she always says, she wants me to be able to buy something nice for myself whenever I want.
She raised me with the proverbial tough love so that I would be independent and capable of handling all of my issues confidently. I've always thanked her for that, but I guess I am a risk-taker. With the support of my partner, the novel feels like the right thing to do now. I have ignored my imagination for far too long. The more I write, the more the skill grows.
She's not the only one asking strange questions. We recently met with a new priest who came over to our home and took the time to get to know us. As soon as he heard that I was at home writing, that vacant look took over his face. The look that says, "Well, that's not really work. You're just wasting your time!"
The other day, my hubby spoke to this priest again who inquired how I was doing. Hubby pointed out that I was considering finding new work (he didn't mention that it was work in the writing field!). But this pleased the priest who went on to mention something about the idle mind. The idle mind? If only he knew how busy my mind really was.
Yesterday presented a fresh perspective. A young mind from my former alma mater, Rhodes, took the time to ask what the novel was about and when I began writing it. There was no judgement. There was no questioning look. There was just interest and acceptance that writing could be a fulfilling career path. How nice not to have to feel defensive about my work, I thought.
I've come too far to turn back and go job-hunting again. The end of the first draft is in sight. I know that I have months more of work ahead of me, not to mention pitching to publishing houses. But I am willing to give it a bash. At the very least I would've completed a goal that I had dreamed up some years ago. Having the freedom to accomplish that goal is truly a rare gift and certainly worth my sabbatical from the 9-to-5 working world.
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