Time to Fly

(If you were around on FB yesterday afternoon, this is old news, just saying up front.)

You never quite know when your life is about to change, do you? One minute, you’re thinking, “Ugh, it’s Wednesday, two and a half more days until the weekend,” and the next, you’re looking at the cliff you’re standing on. You’re left wondering if you jump, will you fly or splat?

It’s been my dream since I was a kid to write for a living. For the last, say, year or so, that dream has come closer to a plan, which was to get to a safe point where I could quit my day job (which I loathed to the eyerolling point of searing hatred with every breath I took inside that building’s walls). Safe meant having a good size cushion wherein I could relax for several months and write with little pressure, little distraction, and lots of time to prove myself, and I would make a solid living and be my own boss and huzzah, every other weekend, it would rain unicorns and pygmy goats. Re-reading that sentence, I’m seeing “safe” was sort of Norman Rockwellian. And dangerous every other weekend, what with creatures with pointy ends falling at terminal velocity.

We all know, life often doesn’t ask our permission before doing whatever it pleases anyway. Which is why at just before lunch time yesterday, I was sitting in HR listening to my boss shakily tell me he was laying me off (with sort of a gleam in his eye, because he disliked me almost as much as I disliked him, and man I wish I could have been the one to initiate the separation of our paths. I had some choice words). But the point isn’t that I no longer have to see that man, and if I do, I am justified in pretending I don’t recognize him. The point is my plan has to be strong enough on the legs I’ve already given it, because safe isn’t gonna happen. I don’t have the year of income saved up, nor am I much closer to being able to pay off the debt I wanted to. However, the terms of my being laid off allow me some freedom, and I have conservatively estimated that I have five to six months in which to make this writing gig pay enough to work for me.

So… this is me, inching closer to the cliff and praying my parachute opens so I can fly.