For those of you who don’t know what I do for a living, I dispatch ambulances. It is a thankless, pain in the ass, will-probably-kill-me-young job that I love. It is not what I want to be doing for the rest of my life. That is (obviously) writing.
You may ask me why I continue to work a job I believe will give me a heart attack before I hit 40. Why put up with the high blood pressure brought on by stress, coping with the lack of resources, or not being compensated appropriately? Why keep beating yourself up like this? Because I’m a writer. I’m used to being beat down just to rise from the ashes. Remember I love my day -err night- job. I can’t see myself doing anything else to pay the bills while still pursuing a career as a novelist.
I wrote BIRTH OF A VIXEN sitting in the dispatch seat. My boss helped me compose query letters, that didn’t pan out. Which was my fault, can’t blame him. I read partial requests and the disheartening rejection letters in that anxiety ridden cubicle. For as much as I wish that I could hate my job it toughened my elephant skin, giving me strength not give up when I read, “It’s just not right for me” or “I already represent something similar” (which was why I sent it to you, duh).
Now that I’m going to self-publish I need all the confidence I can muster. I believe the universe knows this because things are crazier than usual. Sure I want to rip my hair out, run out the door screaming, and enjoy three days at the local psych ward letting my worries slip from my soul while I float high as a kite on the special medications they give out, I’m here…again. Whether its hospital staff, coworkers, agents, or critics knocking me down, I keep getting back up. And I always will.
What keeps you going?