I quit my job yesterday. I’ve been mulling it over for a little while, but I gritted my teeth yesterday and tendered my resignation.
I love my job. I love the company, my co-workers, the work, everything. They’ve treated me so well in the almost three years Ive worked for them. When I first started my tenure there, I was working part-time helping out with packaging orders in the shipping department.
They encouraged me to grow, however, and eventually I went on to launch their company blog, we dabbled in Twitter, I set up their Facebook page, I dipped my toes into the marketing world, did a little photo shooting, and ate a whole heaping ton of cake. I really can’t imagine ever having more fun at a company than I did with Bottle Your Brand.
So why did I quit? Why am I turning down what is virtually the gold standard of stay-at-home-mom positions? To take a chance. A gamble, really.
I’m going to try to get published.
No, I’m not crazy. Or foolish, thinking, like Tobias Fünke of Arrested Development that I can get a pie-in-the-sky dream like becoming a published author off the ground. Instead, I’m trying to keep my word.
Five years ago when I told my Dad I was getting married, he worried that marriage would be a distraction and that I’d drop out of college. I assured him I wouldn’t, and went on to graduate with honors.
When I broke the news and year and a half ago that I was pregnant, he worried again. He feared that I’d let myself become subsumed by my new role as a mother. That I’d abandon all my goals and, as such, end up in a bad spot later in life.
I thought really hard about what he said, and decided that I needed a goal. So I made one: I told my Dad that my goal was to get published before the age of 30. In owning that as a goal, I implicitly declared that I would do everything in my power to make it happen. I’m not the kind of person who relinquishes goals lightly.
This NaNoWriMo has really ignited a spark in me. My novel is pouring out like water, and Wes assures me that it’s coming along nicely. The only problem has been finding the time to get it written. Things are falling by the wayside, and try as I might, I just can’t seem to cram everything into my life and make it all fit.
If I want to get serious about my writing, practicing and honing it and growing as a writer, I need time. I’m obviously not going to let my responsibilities as a wife and mother go, which leaves my job. Wes makes enough to support us, which gives me the freedom to take a ridiculous leap.
In a time of economic uncertainty, I’m letting go of a fantastic job to pursue my dream of someday seeing my name on a book cover. I’m either a hero or a lunatic, and I have absolute faith that time will reveal which. It’s possible that I may never get published.
The only certain thing, though, is that I will never get published if I don’t make space in my life to try.