It’s my birthday today. Last night, in between drinking boatloads of Death in the Afternoon*, I told my friends about a plan I made ten years ago. I planned to save enough money to pay myself a year’s salary for a writing sabbatical. I figured that at my rate of savings I’d have enough by the time I was 35.
Here I am, 35, and that money is actually in the bank. It’s not a year’s salary at my current pay grade, but it would be enough to feed me and cover the vet bills.
And I’ve discovered that in fact I’m not going to take the sabbatical.
Why not? The pieces are in place. I’ve started selling stuff, I have a finished novel manuscript to shop, and I’m partway through another, with a publisher already expressing interest in that one. This would be a perfect time to break.
Because my job wouldn’t be there when I got back; and I’ve discovered I love it, and I’m conservative about giving away things I love. I think that’s the only reason, though.
I’m a lucky, lucky person. This is the kind of choice many writers don’t ever get to make. And I’m celebrating my luck today by… you guessed it…. writing. And listening to Kate Bush.
*Hemingway’s concoction: absinthe and champagne. Yeah, it was a party.