I am a Writer
By Lisa Ploch Swope
Copyright © 2008 by Lisa Ploch Swope, All Rights Reserved
It was a Sunday evening, and
my husband Dan and I were watching a television show documenting the
work of loggers in the picturesque and rugged Pacific Northwest. Despite
having seen friends injured and killed on the job, these tough men
choose to rise each day for a job most people would never consider. One
burly man proclaimed he would never want to work in the city. If he had
to work in a "concrete jungle," he said, he might as well be caged or
shot. So passionate he was about this physically demanding job in the
great outdoors.
My heart sank as I was
reminded that my weekend was drawing to an end and that I would have to
go back to my own "concrete jungle" in the morning.
I have a good job, working
8:15 to 4:45 Monday through Friday for an insurance company. I get a
45-minute lunch and two 15-minute breaks each day. The pay and the
benefits are good. But my safe little cubicle is the cage the lumberjack
avoids. Like my coworkers, I fell into the job, where the main
requirement is that we hold a bachelor’s degree.
Nine years ago, I earned my
degree in journalism. Shortly after, I was thrilled to land a job as a
reporter at the local newspaper that I had been reading my whole life. I
enjoyed driving to and from interviews, forming the sentences in my
mind, eager to get to the office and commit them to paper.
I did not feel I was cut out
for the life of a journalist, though. The long hours, especially the
evenings and weekends, were frustrating when I wanted to do things with
my family and Dan, whom I had started dating during that time. Trying
and failing to come up with intelligent questions for the mayor at the
regular city council meetings was nerve-racking for me, not to mention
embarrassing. I was not an aggressive reporter, and whenever a source
told me no, I backed down. I did not want breaking news; I just wanted
to write human interest stories.
After a year and a half, I
found my excuse to quit when Dan got a job transfer. I left my hometown
and with it my career as a reporter. I have since worked a variety of
office jobs and have felt no passion for any of them. They pay the
bills, and I am grateful for the paycheck but I feel a great
disappointment as I sometimes wonder if this drudgery is what life is
all about.
Fortunately, I know it is
not, because in my spare time, I read writing publications and I write.
I call myself a writer, even if nobody else does.
I recently discovered Hope
Clark's blog, which alerts readers to writing competitions, at
http://www.hopeclark.blogspot.com. I have entered one, and I can't
wait to get going on more. I plan to start submitting my writing to
markets I have discovered through
http://www.fundsforwriters.com .
The rusty wheels are
starting to turn in my mind. I may never win a writing competition or
make any money at freelance writing, but I now have an ambition. I can
dream that one day, I will become successful with my writing, make money
at it and quit the routine of my office job.
I dream that it will happen.
And even if it never does, I am happy because I know I am not a
mindless, defeated working stiff. I am a writer.
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