This Woman's Working

For the win

About a month ago, I updated my job search criteria on Indeed. Just to do it.

I wasn’t actually looking for another job because I don’t really want another job. If anything, I want to prove to myself there are no jobs I’m qualified for that I would be able to stomach showing up for day in and day out.

Every time I think about going back to work, I get this creeping feeling like it’s the wrong move. That it will make me miserable. Or that it’s a clear indication of failure in my current job of “writer.” Just all-around bad vibes.

I see a dark future in a strange new workplace, among gossipy co-workers, under some power-hungry supervisor’s management. I see myself chained to a schedule with no flexibility, providing labor for a company whose bottom line I don’t care about, frittering away the precious hours I have and need to make amazing stories and try to get millions of people to read them every day.  

Writing is my dream job. And I have it. Right now.  

So, why would I leave? Why would I quit while I’m … you know … not exactly behind?

Here’s why.

Writing is FUCKING HARD, MAN.

I used to think parts of it were easy, but they’re not. It’s all hard.

Writing is hard.

Revising is hard.

Sharing is hard.

Selling is hard.

Gate crashing is hard.

Rejection is hard.

Social media is hard.

Branding is hard.

Hard. Hard. Hard. Hard. Hard. Hard. HARD!!!!

As a working writer, I’m not in a strange workplace. I’m in my own house.

I NEVER LEAVE.

I’m not surrounded by co-workers. I’m alone.

ALL THE TIME.

I’m not under the thumb of some power-hungry boss.

I’M MY OWN BOSS. AND I’M A TOTAL FUCKING NIGHTMARE.

I make my own schedule.

I NEVER TAKE A DAY OFF.

I care desperately about my bottom line.

I HAVEN’T COLLECTED A PAYCHECK IN THREE YEARS.

I have all the hours in the world to make amazing stories, and I’m not even close to getting millions of people to read them.

Now that we’ve read through the complaint box at my dysfunctional place of self-torture employment, I’m going to tell you a story.

It’s a short one. The narrative spans twenty-four hours and it’s 100% true.

After dinner on Monday, I was feeling antsy. I checked my email and the other five or six things I check obsessively for updates throughout the day hoping for some sign I’ve become an overnight success. Or at least that I’m not invisible. Then I went to Indeed to doom scroll for crummy jobs I didn’t really want.

The first job that popped up was for a part-time floral design position at a place about twenty-five minutes from my house. The ad said they were “urgently hiring.”

I worked as a floral designer for years in my twenties. It was one of the few jobs I had that I’ve considered returning to because I liked it so much. But I’ve always hesitated to apply for entry level jobs in flower shops for a couple of reasons.

1. I’m vastly overqualified to be a salesperson or delivery driver.

2. No workplace or boss could ever be as awesome as the one I had before.

But something about the ad made me think applying was the right move. So, without doing much thinking at all, I spruced up my resume by throwing some more weight behind my design, sales, and customer service experience. Proofread for typos (always) and hit send. The whole process took me twenty minutes.

Easy.

Within two hours, I got a message asking me when I could interview. I wrote back and we scheduled for the next day.

At this point, I was waiting for the creeping feeling to start … creeping. Along with the second guessing, the worst-case scenario thinking, the stress, the panic. The worry about what may or may not happen with this job I didn’t have yet or even want necessarily.

But the creeping feeling wasn’t there.

It wasn’t there the next day either.

Normally, on a day when I have a “thing” I need to show up for in the middle of the day, there’s no point trying to do anything but sit around and fuss about it until it’s time to go. I try not to plan things before “things.” But I actually did some work after breakfast. I went to the gym. I came home, ate lunch, and went to the interview.

No creeping feelings. No stress. No anxiety.

What. Is. This?

I met the boss. She immediately reminded me of my old boss, and I liked her. The place was completely new to me, but it felt familiar. Because all flower shops sort of look, feel, and smell the same. She showed me around and we talked shop. I remember everything about the job. I could do it with my eyes closed. She asked me to make an arrangement on the spot, and I didn’t flinch. Actually, it was starting to stress me out that I wasn’t stressing out about this. I kept waiting for the nerves to kick in. For my fingers to start shaking. To break a stem or cut one too short or just otherwise bomb the “exam.” But none of that happened. I crushed it. Without even trying.

It was so damn easy.

We talked about scheduling. Flexible.

We talked about pay. A bit of a letdown, but retail is retail.

She never actually said the words, “you’re hired.” But I was hired on the spot.

She didn’t even hold on to the list of references I gave her. I was that convincing a candidate.

Not only was I convincing, I was confident from the moment I sent my application that I would get the job. Even before I interviewed. Even though I wasn’t sure I wanted a job at all. I figured, if I get a bad vibe at any point in this process, I’ll bail. I can do that. And if I do, the world will not end. I’ll just wait for the next opportunity to come along. And the next, and the next, until I hit one that feels right. That feels easy.

Writing as a job is not easy.

We’ve covered this.

But the ease with which I landed this other opportunity got me thinking about why writing—as a job—is so hard for me. And it has everything to do with confidence. Or … a lack of it.

Floral design is an art. It requires a specific set of skills. Not everyone can do it. And not everyone who can do it can do it well. But I can. I know that, and I trust that. 100%. There’s no voice in my head telling me I’m not good enough. I’ve never compared myself to another floral designer and felt less than. Every florist has a unique style and so do I. My designs carry my signature—my voice—just like my stories do. And if I ever made something out of flowers that someone looked at and said, “meh. I don’t like it.” I honestly wouldn’t give a flying fuck what that person thought.

So why—FFS—can’t I reach this level of confidence with my writing?

I guess there’s a possibility I’m not as good a writer as I am a floral designer, but I don’t think that’s true. You people have read my work. I’m the cat’s damn pajamas. And I can say that without feeling like a dick, because I know there’s no one else on the planet who can write “in the style of Meg Oolders” better than I can.

So maybe it’s really a question of whether or not I believe I’m doing a good job— at my job. And I’m starting to think that maybe … I’m not.

But can you blame me for thinking that? You’ve seen my working conditions. They’re appalling. The pressure to produce quality work while simultaneously pushing all the right needle-moving buttons in the exact right order to engage the one person in a million who might help me up to the next rung on the ladder is debilitating. Writing is not a “job” for me. It’s a sentence. It’s one dose of nasty medicine after another and there’s no end in sight.

So, what can I do?

I can’t quit my dream job. Not while I’m ahead.

But I can set some boundaries.

This is something I should have been doing all along, but when you have the space and the freedom to throw yourself 100% into the dream, it’s hard to resist the lure of deep end. Before you know it, you’re so far under that the dream starts to warp your reality. Your worth and identity become targets for self-sabotage.

So, what did I do?

I took the part-time job. And I’m looking forward to it. I’m looking forward to having co-workers and a workplace to go to that’s new, but familiar. I’m looking forward to making beautiful things for an audience of one. I’m excited to show up and be visible. To make a difference. To serve a purpose and share my gift. And I’m excited to get paid for my hard work.

The boundaries around my other job will set themselves. There will be hours in my week that I can’t write. Or engage with my audience. Or worry about the next thing. And there will be long stretches of time when I won’t be able to obsessively check all the spaces I go to, hoping to spot the opportunity that’s going to launch me into overnight success.

I’ll probably miss a few opportunities. But that’s how it goes.

If this week has shown me anything, it’s that I can (and should) trust that one day, when I’m feeling antsy, I’ll go to one of those spaces and an opportunity will present itself to me. And my gut will tell me it’s the right move to pursue it. And without much thinking, I’ll throw all my weight, talent, skill, and voice behind it. Proofread for typos (always) and hit send.

Everything leading up to that “send” will have been really, really hard.

But that big win is going to come easy for me. And it should.

I’m 100% confident.