Being a writer

My husband said yesterday that he has decided to change his career choice (he’s a photographer) and become a writer. Something about freedom of mind and choices, he said. He would make the announcement today, he hinted.

“Yeah, and the money should start coming in immediately,” I said.

He erupted in laughter.

That’s because he has seen me do just about everything possible to make a living during the 10 years we’ve known each other. When we first met I was both teaching composition … and waiting tables at an Italian restaurant. I’ve been a receptionist, secretary (OK, only for one day; it was a disaster), bartender … even an au pair for a while in Paris.

These days I still worry about covering expenses and generally stockpile every extra dollar into a savings account for the lean times I’m always sure are just ahead.

As I consider the time and mental space needed to write a novel, it scares me to think that I would have to either scale back my professional projects … or start writing at 5 a.m. each day … which I’ll probably do. I’ll have to cut out all unnecessary Internet time (bye bye London Daily Mail).

It’s as if I’ve had this one thing I’ve done since I was about 17 years old, though I couldn’t have put it into words then.

Finding income was always a part of my life; I started working at 15 (waitress at Parker’s Barbecue). It’s not that I don’t enjoy hard work; it’s just that there has always been an obsession inside to follow the experiences and make note of them.

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