Pretty much, I’m the luckiest guy on the planet. Because when I pick my nose, I get diamonds!!!
No, that’s not true. But I am lucky, because I get to wake up on Monday mornings and instead of going to the cubicle, I get to stay home and write.
You can hate me. I’m used to the hate. I don’t mind the hate.
There’s plenty of stuff on the webbertoobs telling writers to be very, very, very cautious about quitting the Day Job, and they’re all correct and you should listen to them.
That being said, I quit my Day Job some years ago. My partner and I were both making healthy full-time incomes while living cheaply, and with her generous support, we figured we could afford to live off just the one income for a while while I tried to be a full-time writer.
It was Failure. Not financial failure, not even career failure, but emotional failure. I felt I wasn’t doing enough. I wasn’t writing enough. I wasn’t achieving enough. I wasn’t getting good enough. I was just slacking, squandering, frittering, wasting, taking. Without sufficient publishing successes, and without sufficient determination and good self-image, I came to hate myself a little bit.
That’s the thing I don’t see enough in discussions about quitting the Day Job. You might be reading this now and rolling your eyes and thinking if you could quit your job and focus on writing you’d be wearing the cat’s pajamas and the dog’s too. But are you sure you know what you need to make you happy? How much success will it take to keep you from the spiraling-toilet feeling that you are a sucking drain? You should at least seriously consider the question while you’re spreadsheeting things like health insurance and retirement and grocery bills.
Quitting the Day Job was the wrong choice for me. I was writing a lot, working hard at it, but I felt my self-esteem grow dimmer with every passing day. It just wasn’t emotionally sustainable. So I went back to my 9-5 (and I was very lucky that they took me back, even gave me a raise and a promotion), and even though I hated going to the cubicle on Monday mornings, I got back to the point where I could look myself in the mirror.
And then, a while later, I quit again. And this time I wrote my ass off (and I also taught part-time and did contract work to help make up some of the income loss). Not that I hadn’t written a lot the first time, but this time felt different. I was writing for my very life. I didn’t know whether this would be a year-long opportunity or a month-long, but I was determined to wring every drop of joy and passion out of this opportunity. I don’t think it’s an accident that I sold my first novel soon after this point, and then my second and third. This year I’ll earn a full-time income from writing for the very first time in my life. Not a great full-time income, but one that materially contributes to the household and doesn’t offend me.
I’m still on a see-how-this-goes basis. Every six months, at least, we sit down and talk over our financial status and goals and decide if this is still working. But just as important as the money stuff, I give myself a good, hard, sustained look in the mirror. A spreadsheet can’t reveal everything.
by Greg van Eekhout