Bukowski wrote a poem titled So you Wanna be a writer and I keep it taped to my wall in my writing studio. The entire piece is telling you not to be a writer- not unless you can’t help it.
Last weekend I sat down and wrote for about a total of 16 hours. Not just creative writing, most of it was blogging and scribbling, but it felt, well, awesome; It felt real. I felt complete. I felt like it was who I was, and what I did. Monday, when I went back to the office, I had felt like something was wrong. Something was off. Why did I feel just a tiny bit empty? And it hit me. I didn’t write today. Not one word.
I’ve never been good at being in both worlds. I’m not like William Stafford. I can’t wake up at five in the morning and write before work. I can’t come home from being an Administrative Assistant in a software company, and then come home and write. I mean, I could, but the amount of drive it takes feels like I’m tearing out my hair. I don’t know why I am like this, but I didn’t write one thing all week except for some journaling. Admittedly, journaling has become just that to me; journaling not exercising. I love it, but it’s so introspective that it isn’t doing for me what I need. Some how when I write “out” when I make my words for an audience I have this feeling of connect. It’s strange, it’s new- well not completely- I felt this way when I used to act- like I was going to die with out it, like I was more alive then my daily living. I don’t want what happened with my theatre life to happen in my writer life.
I spoke with J. who is the HR manager at my work, but she is also my friend, and when I first told her about my wanting to leave my job she suggested me doing a job share. I spoke to my direct supervisor T. the vp of finance and he thought this was something he would be willing to try and I felt…ok about it. I felt like it was my security blanket because lets face it once you have insurance, and a regular paycheck, and the news is telling you you’re going to die without money, and you fear poverty then job sharing sounds safe. But something was wrong. And I slept on it. And then I had my great weekend of writing, and then Monday came and I realized, I can’t do it. I can’t have the security blanket. I have to do this 100%. The writer I met on the train told me, he said, don’t even volunteer during your 2 months just write. Just write. Just write. So I told J. on Tuesday I needed the full 2 months, but I also told her I didn’t think I could come back. As good as the company has been to me- I can’t go back. So now it’s out. 100% no security, no insurance no incoming income. Out and no going back and no taking the door to that world- out. I’m nervous and excited.
If it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
There is no other way.
And there never was.