Today is Monday. Mondays are usually about drudgery, about picking up the pieces of the jobs you abandoned on Friday, getting back into the flow of the task, aligning yourself with the corporate plan and getting at it. Getting on task. Working.
I've always said that I didn't want the kind of job that makes you look forward to Fridays, and dread Mondays. And yet, I have had precisely that job for the last... uh. Always. Almost fifteen years, I guess.
Last Wednesday, I tendered my resignation. I'm done with presort. I'm done with fundraising. I'm done with dreading Mondays.
This is my last full week here. I'll have next Monday, but that will be a short week, and I don't suspect there will be much for me to do. And then on Thursday morning I'll wake up, and my time will be my own. I'll have no excuse to make about how long I can devote to this project or that book. For the last nine years I've been writing nights and weekends, neglecting relationships that mean the world to me, not taking care of myself mentally, physically or spiritually. Grinding.
And at the end of the day, when I settle down in front of the book each night after a full day of work, exhausted, there's no way I'm writing as well as I could be. I'm certainly not performing up to my own standards. So now I have the chance to do that. I can write as well as I can, with no excuses, no filters, no buffers between me and the page.
Can I make it as a full time writer? We'll see. That question has been hanging over my head for years. As long as I had the day job, it wasn't a question I had to answer. I have to answer it now. I have to succeed now, or accept failure.
I'm not the kind of guy who accepts failure.