I’ve been a writer for about six years now. I love it, it comes naturally to me — usually. Like any human being, I have days where I’m distracted, cloudy, out of creative ideas. So, back in 2015 when I was let go from a totally-fine-but-not-terribly-inspiring-job, I didn’t feel immediately concerned that my writing brain seemed to shut off like a flashlight. Originally I had imagined my unemployment to be a playground of creativity — I’d work on my blog, spruce up my portfolio, build a bustling freelance career that would allow me to travel the world. Maybe I’d start doing pottery again. I could paint. I’d eat healthier, drink less, become someone who enjoys running for some fucking reason. The day I lost my job I was on cloud nine. The split was amicable and I’d had one foot out the door for a while anyway. I drove home at noon on 76 on a traffic-free final commute with the windows down and music blasting. It was a brand new day.

 

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