Five months ago, I got up one morning and sent an email that had been a long time in coming.
I would like to give my two weeks’ notice, I wrote to the boss of the law firm where I worked. I don’t want to be a legal writer. I want to be a writer-writer.
Even I knew how precious those words sounded--as if I were darling of the muses, whisked away from my 9 to 5 for a higher purpose. But I wrote it because it was truer than anything else, and because had been true my entire life.
You would think that if I wanted to be a writer so badly, I wouldn’t have had to quit my job. I would have written any way I could, anywhere I could, scribbling away on the bus or working on chapters between legal briefs. After all, I had heard the stories about real writers, the people who wanted to write more than any other thing. Jane Austen jotted down ideas on a blotter between visits from the gentry.Read More