I've arrived; my company email address proves it

Today, I am jumping off a cliff. Letting my body drop into an unfamiliar void called . . . happiness. Spread-eagled, J. Jill cardigan flapping in the wind, I’m grinning. I’m pretty sure there’s a net down there somewhere (I hope it can bear my weight. Being sick didn’t make me thinner.) I have to believe it’s there. I have to believe because if I don’t let myself feel this joy I will be labeled the biggest dumb a** ever to walk the earth.  I’ve been offered a new job, working for a literary agency. So, today, I’m taking a leap of faith – I’m going to believe this job is real, not just a mirage. Today, I’m going to believe the future paychecks are real, the daily getting-to-use-my-brain-and-discuss-books-and-authors thing is real. Today, I’m researching the publishing industry because – ta da – I’m a new cog. For real.

I taught and coached for fifteen years. I was kinda’ good at it. I was forced out of what I knew and loved by a chronic debilitating illness (Epstein Barr, the sleeping sickness, the stupidest disease you can get). Being a person who thrives on animated, intelligent interaction, projects, and the satisfaction of helping others find their voice, it was hard to be at home, alone, being non-productive. More than hard. I was sick and lonely and slowly devolving into a dark, depressed zombie. Then I realized I was ignoring the gift concealed in the blackness. Time. Time to write. Time to cherish, really cherish, my son. Time to clean the house and cook. The last I ignored.  I mean, what the hell. What kind of gift is that? That’s like being given peanut brittle when you just had your tonsils removed.

I finished my book. I published some short stories and poetry. I found an agent. I got dropped by my insurance company. I sunk my family into debt. I started teaching a writing class at the community college. I memorized the Star Wars Character Encyclopedia with my son. I figured out how to parcel out my energy, to pace myself. I started a second book. And now, as of this week, I am fulfilling every English major’s dream by getting hired at a literary agency. It’s almost too good to be true. But it’s real.

 I’ll tell you a little secret. I didn’t jump off that cliff of happiness until I knew this whole getting-to-use-my-brain-and-discuss-books-and-authors thing was real. I’m cautious like that. So, what finally made me let my guard down, believe in the good news? I’ve been given a company email address. That’s right. I’ve arrived.