I’ve
been wondering lately (I’ll explain why in a minute): how many jobs does the
average person have in a lifetime? A woman in my building is retiring this year
after 42 years there. She spent her whole career in the same job, working for
the same organization. One career, one job.
Since
my first job in college 32 years ago, I’ve had no fewer than sixteen jobs,
making for an average of a new job every two years. The longest so far was
seven years, the shortest, I think, was about six months. Ten I’ve quit for
something better or because I was moving away, never because it was so awful I had to leave. Twice I’ve been laid off. Twice
I was unjustly fired – and of course, those hurt the most at the time. Twice I
was let go because I deserved it, and that hurts more to admit now.
The
first job I remember ever wanting was a writer. That was in first grade.
Forty-odd years later, it’s again (or still?) the job I want most. My mom said
the surest way to start hating your hobby was to make it your job, which effectively
scared me out of attempting a writing career. “Write for enjoyment, but to make
a living give yourself something safe to fall back on.” Good advice, I suppose,
but I wonder now if it kept me from working at the writing.
Now my
job has been eliminated, and I find myself again in the unhappy position of
looking for work. I’m leaving a position after seven years, feeling like I was
just starting to get good at it. But I learned something valuable in all these
jobs: I used to believe being good at something meant something you didn’t have
to work at. I’m finally coming to understand it’s something you’re willing to work at. Am I willing to put
in the work it takes to become a successful writer?
I
think I’m about to find out.
