I’ve always wanted to write, to really be a full time writer. To truly immerse myself in the craft, not worry about a “day job.” I didn’t realize it when we got married, but my husband is actually helping to make one of my dreams come true. I know that sounds corny, but it’s true.
Of course, I knew that marrying him and moving to Finland would allow me the opportunity to write. He is constantly reminding me, any time I say, “I won’t have a job,” that I do, actually. “Your job is to write.” And he’s quite adamant about it. I secretly wonder if he’ll be checking my word count every night.
So yes, I knew that I would get the chance to do something I’ve always wanted to do. And I knew it was because of Hubster. But I didn’t quite connect the dots until today. He is actually making my dreams come true. I was in a bookstore the other day and bought a book on writing, and the cashier asked if I was a writer. I barely hesitated before saying, “Yes.” Without any qualifiers. Not “aspiring writer,” not “I’m going to try to write.” Yes, I am a writer.
Today is my last day at work. Hubster would hate me saying that, so I’ll rephrase. Today is my last day at this job, where I get a pay check. I won’t get another paycheck for a couple of years (even if I do write the next Hunger Games, I may not get a paycheck for a couple of years). After today, I will be a “kept woman.” Relying on my husband to support me. There’s something so…unfeminist about that. It’s a very strange feeling.
And then a new thought (put into my head by a friend): Now I have nothing keeping me from realizing my dreams…except myself. If I fail, it’s well and truly because of me.
No pressure or anything…