Boom. Start Again.

The job that brought me to my dream city is ending.

In two weeks, the company that miraculously contacted me last winter just in time to keep me from temporarily giving up on my goal and instead brought my plans to sudden fruition, my first choice company, will let me go. They’re eliminating the position.

That’s life. I know it is. The corporate life. I don’t resent them, or at least only in brief fits. I’ve saved enough from the start that I’m not panicking…yet. But what’s far more interesting than my job ending is what thoughts it thrusts upon my mind.

What do I really want to do with my life? How important is money, really? Obviously we need to have enough to eat and comfortably live with a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, and hopefully some left to spare for the fun parts of life, but how much is enough?

The reason why this is striking me is that I know I want to write fiction. I know that. But as my inner voice, family, friends, and even well-meaning strangers repeatedly feel the need to point out, the odds against making enough money to write fiction full time are monumental. (If you don’t know my feelings toward learning the exact odds, read my article “Revelation at the Book Festival.”)

What I used to think and what used to be my plan was that I should make my way into the business world doing something sensible and consistent so that I could fund my writing on the side. But then I learned how disheartening it is to work hard for twenty-three hours of the day in hopes of spending the twenty-fourth doing what one loves, and then being too exhausted to make use of that hour. I know many people endure far worse, and I don’t mean to make light of their struggles or to paint my experiences as tragic when they are full of blessings, but I do mean to distill what is most important to do with my time and how to best spend my life.

I used to think that having any less than everything as far as resources was some kind of failing on my part, that I needed to work harder, to try harder, to do the smart thing more often so that I wouldn’t become a starving artist and a failure. But now my thinking has been taking a different tack: What if I were to be somewhat on the poorer side, but doing what I love, and have enough? What if a little less is enough for me, when I’m doing something that makes my life feel worth living?

They say it’s not the years which make your life, but the life in those years. And what would I do if I spent almost all of my time working for the money and then lost my savings like so many people do through all kinds of freak twists of corporate life? The real tragedy would be how much time, how much life I had wasted in order to have more of what I thought would make my life worthy to enjoy – in short, how much I had spent on something I couldn’t keep.

That doesn’t mean that I don’t need a regular job. I’m sure I will. Publishing one’s stories always means playing the long game, and I can’t survive with no income. But how much I’m not panicking over losing my job, how much more the desire to write full time has intensified, makes me wonder if this is not a step closer to the life I’m dreaming of, a sort of wake-up call to my soul not to waste the time I’ve been given, even when it seems nonsensical to everyone else to pursue a dream that so few achieve.

The first question is, of course, how to apply this. What can I do to make the money follow what I love? I’ve been researching that question for over a year now, reading articles and rewriting queries, knocking on doors and then learning some more when I never hear back. (See my article “The Long Walk to the Slush Pile.”) There is no easy answer. It is only ardent pursuit in spite of the odds which makes it possible to find that needle in a haystack, and so I continue to search.

The second question is the one posited by a presenter at the Book Festival (see “Revelation at the Book Festival”), and that is what success means for each of us. For writers, what do we want from publishing? And that answer is different for each of us. It might even be different from what you originally thought success would mean, which can be a startling realization.

For me, success means the freedom to write consistently and not spend my life with all the wonderful thoughts that occur to me getting squashed between the doors of a boring and ill-fitting life. It means I would pour forth my characters and imaginings, and that I would get a few answers from similar souls, or at least ones who love my characters as I do. Or are angered by them. People who care enough to have strong emotions and real discussions based on what I write to them, a community or a family I’ve created for my characters to be brought up in. I would love to have far reach and as many readers as possible without diluting my craft, but I’m realizing now that the money is not as important to me as I thought it was.

Sure, money can be fun if you want to do things that cost a lot of it, and a cushion does bring much peace of mind in a crisis, but all I want is to have enough. Enough for a little apartment with character and charm, big windows at which to dream, comfortable accommodations for myself and my cat, enough room to have a few friends in for dinner or a movie night, and perhaps the occasional adventure. My favorite things are more or less free: sidewalks winding through neighborhoods with mature trees and dreamy old houses, watching it rain on a night in the city, the atmosphere of a community enjoying itself at a farmers market or another celebration. The things which give life flavor and character. I like to be a fly on the wall and absorb life, only to weave it back into my stories in increasingly complex and hopefully relatable patterns so that people can point and say, “That’s me!” not because I wrote directly about them, but because I expressed a sensation we share and perhaps brought comfort or healing by doing so.

I know it only matters so much what we want in this life, or what we only believe we do, and that God has a plan which is as incomprehensible as it is trustworthy, but I do believe that at least some of the dreams I’ve expressed are ones which the Master Gardener has sown within me and meant to grow, and that is my prayer: for him to grow the dreams which he has planted and to gently uproot all the others and make me see that I don’t need them.

Too much is made of heroes with a life of fame when so much more profound good is done through those whose names are known only to their friends and neighbors, who used what ordinary means they possessed to make the load lighter for another human being in simple, practical ways, whose ministry was as pure and guileless as the affection of a child. Which has ever convinced you to accept anything, the strident though correct preaching of a skilled orator who made an enemy of your soul, or the kindness of someone who asked for nothing in return?

I believe this is why the influence of parents is so strong; those who commit to the often thankless job of providing for our every need and (usually) not holding it over our heads have the greatest claim upon our trust even if we seem indifferent to their opinions on the outside. They are often the ones who loosen the soil and plant the seeds, though the harvest may seem a long time off and not appear until after they are gone or their work is done.

I have also noticed the profound impact it makes to come into contact with someone who is doing exactly what they were meant to do, be it ever so humble. Have you ever experienced this? Have you been served by someone who so deeply loved what they do that they brought a level of care and warmth to a seemingly meaningless task which changed your entire week? I have met retail workers whose attitudes have held my attention and made me question whether I was following my own purpose because they brought positive glory to a humble task.

My point is that whenever I find myself second-guessing myself in this dream of authorship or doubting whether such a wonderful dream could be the will of a God who often asks us to sacrifice, I remember how many people he has put in this world who have made a profound difference simply by the manner in which they performed their task, and how he has formed us all for different purposes through which to work his will. If he has made me to do this, then he will find some way to bring goodness to the world through it.

Maybe someone needs my words. Maybe someone’s life will be changed by the comfort, healing, and inspiration they find in my work. I hope so. Perhaps I will even have the privilege of planting the seeds of important growth the way a parent does. Who is to say that it isn’t so? All I know is there is a compass inside me whose needle keeps pointing straight for this; the farther I progress along this path, the more distractions pass softly by when I thought they might be part of the story. Money, approval, and superficial ‘should’ sort of success have joined those ranks, and I know not where this road will take me. I would covet your prayers.