If it weren't a little too overly dramatic, I might call myself unemployed. I've turned in at least 20 job applications in the past two weeks, yet despite the fact that I should be so much more attractive to potential employers than I was last year, I've gotten...well, nothing. I have decided to drown my sorrows in writing. I've continued work on my book project, and I spent all day Wednesday researching literary magazines. There are tons of them out there: I've only made it through those beginning with "L," but I've already got over 20 different magazines with great potential for money-making, in a nicely organized list.
I've categorized them by what genres they accept, what their reading periods are, and, of course, how much they pay. If I can't make money the conventional way this summer, then I hope I'll at least be able to make some spare change by selling stories and poems.
Now, I know what you're thinking; I've heard it from everyone else already. "You can't make a living as a writer!" "A real job would be better, because there would actually be a steady flow of cash!" "You're a crazy, delusional dreamer!" Well, you're right. Every single one of those sentences is absolutely correct. And I could care less.
As much as I loved working retail last summer (and I truly did; I loved the friends I made, am a little too obsessed with ringing items up on the cash register, and, of course, the money was nice), I'm starting to think that not working could be the best thing that could happen to me this summer.
As far as my future is concerned, I can visualize this:
so much better than this:
I tried hard to find legitimate employment this summer. I applied and poured my soul into trying to get an internship with Samaritan's Purse, which ended up not working out. I sent out letters to Columbia Metropolitan Magazine and The State, and finally resorted to my trusted "walk into every store in the mall and fill out an application."
After two weeks of trying and receiving nothing, I'm starting to wonder if maybe that was the point. Instead of having fun working retail this summer, maybe I'll get to spend all my days writing. Honestly, when I try to visualize myself in the future, the only thing I can see myself doing happily is writing. For a newspaper, for a magazine, for a book, for a movie...I'll take whatever comes, as long as it involves a keyboard and the freedom to let my imagination run wild. And yeah, a girl's gotta dream big, so...
Who knows what will happen with the rest of the summer. I could get a call tomorrow offering me a job, stocking shelves, smiling at customers all day long, and eating Chick-fil-A. And I'd probably start cheering so loud they'd fire me on the spot. And if not - who says there's something wrong with writing, trying to get my poems and stories published, and making some extra cash by cleaning houses every once in a while?
(And while we're on the subject, if you have a house that needs to be cleaned, well...you know where to find me :) ).