For five years in the 1980s, I had a great-paying, secure job that I hated - $25,000 and all the overtime I wa
nted painting the tiny rocks that go on roofing shingles. Everyone said I was stupid to quit just to finish college. My mom cried when I told her. I had a wife and two kids, she explained, as only mothers can, how can I just up and quit?
We toughed it out for two years and I was ready to take on the world – except when taking on the world meant taking on a job I didn’t want. I didn’t want retail or factory or office or accounting or even teaching. None of those safe careers interested me. I wanted to write. So still my mom cried.
Newspapers didn’t interest me because they paid so little and the hours were bad. Freelance interested me but I couldn’t find enough consistent work. I ended up writing for my college, and it was great for a couple of years. Then I wrote computer user manuals, because where I live, that’s where the money is, and it was great for a long time. My mom finally stopped crying when I told her I’d made more than twice what the job I hated paid.
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