The Big Leap

I handed in my 30-day notice at work yesterday. For two years, I've worked for a cultural charity in the heart of Edinburgh in a position that a lot of people would kill for. The money is decent, the work is important and ever-changing, and I've been allowed to treat a book shop as my own personal playground. I'm quitting so I can work as a run-of-the-mill office temp, taking a potential pay cut of thousands per year.

My reasons for quitting other jobs, while many, were usually a bit more convincingly dramatic than this one. Because I'm going into full-time volunteer work, say, or because I'm moving to Scotland. Because I'm going back for a higher degree, or because I've found a more challenging job with better pay. But this?

Still pretty dramatic, actually. I want an easy job with predictable hours so I can focus on the writing. Okay, that doesn't sound very dramatic after all. But it feels dramatic, mostly because it calls bullshit on me, and on pretty much my entire life. The truth is, this is literally the best chance I'll ever have to actively and seriously pursue writing as anything more than a hobby, creative writing Master's notwithstanding. Think it'll get any easier once I lock into some other, demanding career? Once we get a bigger flat and need to keep up with the mortgage? Once we have a baby? This is IT.

So I'm leaving my job, and fortunately I have the World's Most Understanding and Supportive Husband, who is also understandably a bit nervous, as he really would like a bigger flat and a baby and all that (so would I). In other words, the pressure's on. Before, if I didn't write for a long time, nobody really noticed. Now, everyone will.

So you wanna do this, or what? Okay, then. Let's do this.