The lure of confessing into a void…

So in two years’ time, I might be out of a job. Major changes in my industry means my career may become redundant.

As the current sole breadwinner and with a preschool-aged child, this terrifies me. I’ve started looking at other avenues – study something else, start again in another area of my field. Either way, it involves having to start from the bottom up. It’s not the end of the world, but a part of me lamented: “I won’t have time for writing! I’ll never finish my novel!”

Then I had an epiphany. I thought: that’s bullshit, Karen. You never had time. You always have time. You have excuses, too. I’m too tired, I’m too busy. I’m always working. I have no space to write. There’s a show on telly. My dad died. I moved countries. I gave birth. I don’t feel the inspiration. I’m too tired. I’m too busy. Blah blah blah.

You never gain time as you get older; you gotta make it. I remember why I dreamed and wrote in the first place. I remember why I loved it so much. Somehow between that dream and now, I was worrying about having enough time more than how I was using it. Nothing puts things into focus more clearly than fear of losing.

So I’m gonna sit my ass down and write. Wake up at 5am on the weekend, write a bit after work, write in the car, on the toilet, in the dark – whatever, doesn’t matter. Just write. I don’t need to be published (although one can only hope 😀 ), I just want to finish something.

Losing my job still terrifies me and writing is hardly a safety net, certainly not enough to quit my day job. But I feel better for it. It keeps me sane and cheerful. It’s my own little slice of time.

There. Gauntlet thrown. Hit ‘OK’. The truth is out there now.

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