I didn’t know unemployment could be this much fun.
Just last Monday, I finally quit the summer job that had been making me extremely unhappy. The work itself wasn’t a problem — it was a good job with fantastic coworkers and decent pay. But the work grind, the repetition of wake-up-work-sleep-repeat, was soul-crushing.
The Tuesday after I quit was quite possibly the happiest day I’ve had all summer. I felt so goddamn free and liberated. And I started to write.
With the exception of Sunday, I’ve written every day for the past week now. In the three months after graduation, from June to August, I produced diddly squat. In the last week since I stopped working, I finished an entire spec script (27 pages!) and started work on my book.
Internet, I just wanna say, after the Hell that was this summer, I’m currently having a blast of a fall. I’m so fucking happy I could burst.
I know that my happiness though, and the circumstances that have allowed me to arrive at this state of being, are an absolute privilege.
Virginia Woolf wasn’t kidding when she said that it takes a steady income and a room of one’s own in order to be a writer.
Writing is a process that requires space, time, and general satisfaction. Mindy Kaling, in her book “Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?”, detailed how her writing process involves puttering around for seven hours before finally settling down to do work. This is pretty much me as well — I wake up, do a couple chores, check the Internet, lay on my bed and listen to music, check the Internet some more, eat, Internet, and ONLY THEN do I put on pants to go somewhere to write. There’s no way any of this would be possible if I was working full time as well. I’m taking all the money I’ve saved up from working this whole summer to live on for the next couple of months and just write. I have no idea how all y’all who work 40 hours a week also manage to scribble in a few pages here and there. Seriously, hats off to you.
This is a privilege, and I’m an astoundingly lucky human to have a few months off to just pound the keys of my computer. I’m humbled, I’m happy, and I’m not taking this for granted.
Ernest Hemingway said, “There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
I’ll be sitting at my Mac the next couple of months, bleeding heavily and drinking copiously. Wish me luck.