Back from a week’s vacation and thinking again about finding a regular job. I’ve had almost two years of working a part time design business that has floundered to say the least.

The rest of the time also was spent piling tens of thousands of words into my new Five book series as well. Queries. Rejections. Querying again. Online seminars, writer’s workshops, writer’s conventions and online pitches.

One opportunity, a contest, will announce in the wintertime, but when exactly is that? It could be January, February. I continue to wait. Hopeful.

My paid for career happened because of my mother. Her passion became mine. It was something I was good at, regardless of the lack of title, and I have found jobs along the way. This time feels differently. The job search.

It reminds me of the line in the movie- When Harry met Sally– “When you find the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you want the rest of your life to start right now.”

It is the same for me now. I have finally figured out the purpose of my life, and I want this writing career of mine to start right now.

The idea of getting even a temporary job in my previous role feels like a death wish. A massive toe dip into the sometimes vapid, egotistical quagmire that it never felt like before. My passion of helping others make a home has fallen away into an attempt to have each view into a room be suitable for a magazine cover. Thousands of dollars spent to look a certain, “way.” Don’t get me wrong, I loved doing it until I didn’t, and the people have been amazing. It’s just me.

I lay on the floor. Frustrated. Yes, there are jobs I could get, but I would show up not giving a shit about any of them, and that doesn’t seem fair to anyone. A waste of time and energy for them, as well as myself. They ask for people to apply who are exited, ones who want to “grow,” with the company. Nope, that’s not me. Should I apply anyway?

I think of a more menial task that will help pay the bills. I’d hate that too.

I think of my Uncle who died with his dream of being a author tight inside him. Pages and pages of his words, left to dust. He never realized any of the success or even understanding that he dreamed of, even though he tried hard for many years to get there.

With the tactical game of publishing these days, what is the magic key to finding our perfect publishing partners? What are we supposed to do with our energy and passion as we wait in the meantime?

Each rejection comes and I feel it and let it go.

~Not meant for me.

~Not the right person, time or project. Etcetera and so on.

Four hundred thousand words cobbled together in my series of five and yet I haven’t been paid for a single word yet. Not one red cent towards my effort. But yet, I would rather cut off a limb then to restrict or eliminate my ability to spend whatever hours I can carve out of each day to write even more.

The compulsion. The need. The guttural pain I feel not to be able to share my words, and my work with others on a scale that I and others who have read it feel like it deserves.

Stab me in the heart over and over but don’t make me quit. I have to do this.

Tears come, and I blink them away. No, I have to remain positive.

I have to believe that my time and my place are being held for me, they will arrive at the perfect moment. If only I can hold on. Believe. Hope. Try harder. Keep going.

I remind myself, “Don’t take a job that should go to someone else. Either out of want or need. That work is no longer my work. I am unable to act like I love that work. It is a lie. I am not that good of an actress, not anymore. “

I am a writer and author to be.

~