At first, I had mixed feelings about it. It's a wonderful job working in wildlife conservation, something even more important to me (and the world) than books. I wanted to be writer since I was 12. I wanted to save animals since I was 6. So I guess this dream has seniority.
But I miss being able to write all day long every day. Sure, it sucked when we couldn't pay the rent and my boyfriend begged me to get a job as a barista. But before he came home, my days were endless, free-wheeling riots of imagination. I came up with ideas for and started no less than 5 new books. And I miss it.
Now, here's where the "mixed" part of my "feelings" comes in: Even after my six month wonderland of writing, I'm happier working. Even with my 1.5 hour commute because we fail at finding a new apartment, I'm happier now in my little office than I was at home. Because I love getting out, living, contributing to the world. Not just the fantasy worlds in my head.
But here's the silver lining to the cloud that's already pretty fluffy and awesome: Working makes us better writers too. Why? Because you have to interact with lots of different people and see all the struggles in the world before you can write well. Do you think Kurt Vonnegut would have been a quarter as trenchant if he hadn't worked as a used car salesman first? Hell no!
Plus, I get to spend all day learning about these:
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| African Wild Dogs :) Dying in Zimbabwe :( |
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| Saigas :) Dying in Uzbekistan :( |
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| Cheetahs :) Dying in Botswana :( |
