I have just been hired by the independent bookstore down the street where I will be supervising and organizing author events. I get to fondle, sniff, and chat about books all day. I’ll meet authors and help them sell books. I can even ride my bike to work.
If one of my kids gets sick at school, I think I’ll be able to duck out to take them home and tuck them in on the couch with the remote, a big glass of water, and bowl to barf in. I won’t be able to stay with them, though, and during summer vacation, they’ll have to fend for themselves most of the time; no more play-dates after school and no more time scheduled to write. But hey, I’ll get paid instead.
Because I’m an adult and my kids are not babies anymore, right? And of course, it is important for a woman to set a professional example, especially for young girls who will grow up and have careers themselves one day. And truthfully, my writing never counted. I mean it did not count monetarily, it was not worthwhile in the sense that it did not make money, which is really how we evaluate things. The writing wasn’t real in most people’s minds. Friends often forgot that I wrote — to them, it was just a hobby. My daughters never saw hard-cover proof of what I was doing while they were at school and after the hope of me getting paid to write diminished, my husband didn’t even want to hear about writing anymore. He was tired of being the only breadwinner.
Because people work for paychecks. That’s just what modern day grown-ups do.
So I did it: I have a full-time job. I already like the people I work with and I’m excited to help sell books. I will take all my avid, burning desire to write and use it to help other writers sell their books so they can keep writing. I am participating in an artistic endeavor in which I truly believe and I can say without equivocation that am the ideal person for this job.
Is this what you call a happy ending?