I’m a precarious writer and these are precarious times.

September’s just around the corner and although I barely notice the seasons passing anymore, this turn of season does come with some decisions that I need to make.

I love my job. Even when I get groan-worthy assignments, I feel so lucky to have it. The last two weeks I’ve been working from home while I foster a 5-year-old puppy, Poppy. She’s the sweetest little cuddle-bug and I love her. My social life has been picking up again since vaccinations became widespread, though cases are going up where I live because our provincial government is filled with regressives so we’ll see how long that lasts. Other than that, I’ve been doing tae kwon do (I’m a yellow-stripe belt), acting classes, and took some accent lessons over the summer. Life’s been good in a time when so many are suffering, and there’s this weird dichotomy between the state of the world and my life. Maybe that’s why I’m afraid to trust it.

I could see myself settling into this life. I can imagine quitting the pursuit of acting so I can afford to adopt Poppy and letting my job be the only work I do, depending on it entirely and the steady income it brings. I could imagine taking classes without thinking about how they’ll look on a resume. I could imagine having enough free time to write or read books. (When my attention span allows it again, if ever. Fuck, I miss reading books.) I could relax into it, save up for retirement and spend the rest of my days in this god-forsaken hellscape of a province with a job I enjoy and a dog and my writing.

Now, maybe it’s the artist in me, or maybe it’s a consequence of growing up in a time of back to back to back recessions, but I’ve always believed you can’t depend on a job. A couple of jobs plus several streams of self-employment income, sure, but depending on one job is putting all your eggs into one basket, but someone else is carrying the basket and they could drop it at any time. I see the allure of it, but I’ve also come home from school to see the box of desk items just inside the door, probably put it there on purpose so my dad wouldn’t have to tell us out loud that he lost his job again. Anything could happen. The company could go under, they could cut the department I work in or replace us with robots, the building could collapse or a freaking pandemic could happen.

Okay, I’m getting a little off topic. The point is, I could make a life for myself on the path I’m on now and keep this dog I’ve fallen in love with. But to do that, I’d have to let go of some things. Namely, acting and leaving—the two things I’ve wanted most for such a long time.


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