What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

Anything – anything – where I can read and write.

I thought recently that I would like doing something where I Work With Books.

The only problem with this is, I am already “experienced”, in all the wrong places.  Meaning I am beyond entry-level status but have done nothing editorial that has not been freelance.  Meaning I’d have to start from scratch as an assistant to an agent, or assistant to an editor, either of whom is sure to be young enough to be my great-grandson thrice removed.

For this, I blame myself.  I got lured into advertising and spent far too much time secretly hoping to write, all the while churning out nothing but proposals and business letters imploring some ass or other to please please PLEASE put their nice pretty products in my nice pretty magazine!  For this I was paid well, but it’s all pointless now – I have neither the money nor the happiness that would have come with a more satisfying career.

I am doing a lot of writing these days (finally, yes, finally) and I am thrilled.  Thrilled, even, that when I go back and look at it, it doesn’t look quite so awful as my original writing did years ago. Not that I am beyond editing at all, please, I have no delusions about that.  But the first drafts are actually salvageable as opposed to good candidates for shredded kitty litter.

But here’s the rub.  I want to Do Something With Books, while I write my own, of course.   But the rub here is, I would only be considered for the entry-level stuff (if that, even, given my years in the workforce) and I need more than an entry-level salary to make going back to work not become a further strain.  I need to pay for the children to be looked after.  That means a minimum of $3000 a month.

There is not an an entry-level editorial job in the WORLD that is going to give me that much.

Sigh.

I love my kids, but I’m so tired of putting off my dreams.  I sit here day after day, and I help The Hacker to get his business organized, and of course organize the children’s lives and schedules, and nowhere have I made my own life a priority, whether it’s something as simple as getting to an exercise class or really trying to break out of this damn advertising sales mold I’ve been in (as well as the resultant long-reaching depression).

And now that I am finally trying, I feel as though it is long past the point where anything will come of it.

I love my children to pieces.  I love my husband immensely.

But right now, I hate my life.

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