I quit my job on March 31. No regrets.
I'm not trying to be all mysterious about my career. I just don't want to have to edit myself because potential employers might Google me and discover that (a) I quit because I don't believe you should have to pop Ativan to make it through your workday, (b) there is more to me than a professional degree.
I just learned that a story I wrote will appear in Word Riot (wordriot.org) in July. I pretty much hate everything I write but I kind of love this story. It is the very first thing I have ever submitted for publishing and it got picked up. I am shocked and thrilled. And worried that it's a fluke and scared that my family will disapprove of its subject matter.
This very brief period of time away from my fairly conservative area of employment has reminded me of my pure, hungry, innate and utter love of words. I have always written. A few poems. Scattered journal entries. Two thirds of a novel. A short story here and there. But the words are here now every day.
The kind of work I do involves quite a bit of writing. I enjoy it and it pays the bills. This work now, during this uncertain time without paychecks, is like a cold glass of water on a steamy day. It might not pay the bills, but, damn, it feels good going down.