At 5:30 this morning I stared into the dish washer and was struck with fear. For the first time in my life I worried that I’ll not be able to provide for my family. Who is insane enough to quit a professor job (lots of money, permanent position, most-super retirement plan) just to turn to arts? I mean, arts, right? Artists starve, live in stinky, dirty corners underneath ugly concrete bridges, and keep themselves warm with threadbare handkerchiefs. Because, you know, the critical point here is that I’m the sole bread winner for my family of four. WHAT THE HELL WILL MY KIDS EAT?
The moment of panic lasted roughly thirty seconds. A few hours later, I locked the door to my office one last time and turned in my keys.
Then I drove off campus, a happy grin plastered all over my face.
Then I went home to my family, filled fresh blueberries, strawberries, and sliced peaches into a bowl, added a ton of whipped cream, a dash of honey and we celebrated my first day as a full-time author.
It’s hard to explain the feeling of letting go what used to be an important part of my life for more than twenty years, and to reach out for something new and wonderfully exciting. It’s probably like being drunk and jumping off a sky scraper, suspecting I will grow wings in time, or not fall too hard. I love this new life. Thank you everyone for reading my stories, for your support, your friendship, and your time. You can find me in my greenhouse (aka: my office) writing stories that will, hopefully, make you cry and laugh and love with the people I invent and who reinvented me.