I started my second novel last night. While I’m excited to see if I can do it again, the idea of writing another book as I near the end of my editing journey with my first one makes me tired just considering it. It’s like finishing a road trip across the country, getting out of the car, stretching and then getting back in and driving back the way you came. If I want to make this my life—and I do—I’ll have to get used to it.
I’m pretty far from a royalty check though. So, I’ve been looking for a job. I live in an area that has little to offer in the way of jobs, especially in my desired field. It’s a rural county that’s lost several businesses in the recession. It’s been endless frustration as I try out the local factories and fail. I’m just not fast enough. I over-think everything. Office jobs aren’t prevalent and when they do come open, you better know or be related to someone already working there if you want in. Either that or you have to be Super Administrative Assistant (with a cape and everything). One sure way to make yourself feel like crap, is to start looking for a job. I’m like the middle child of skill sets. I’m over-qualified for a lot and under-qualified for even more, being completely ignored while I scream, “I can learn! Give me a chance!”
The painful truth is that I know I’ll never be happy doing those types of jobs. What makes it so upsetting is that I feel broken. I feel like I’m not capable. It’s irrational. But the only thing I feel like I’m good at is writing. It’s great for one, because I work alone. That way, I can’t slow anyone down but myself. If I don’t get that novel written quickly, I’m not hurting anyone but myself. Two, it’s always been a way to open a valve and let out whatever’s brewing in my head.
So, I keep applying, hoping to find something, somewhere that I fit, and I keep writing in hopes of one day seeing my words in print. I keep going. I keep moving forward. I keep driving toward the horizon.