Maybe, baby

I really got my resumé all sparkly over Xmas and New Year's, and am sending it out to various employers, hoping I get some nibbles. Right now, I'm looking for anything writing- and editing-related that'll pay in the mid-$60s. I'm not greedy, but as the sole breadwinner of the house with a five-year-old and a one-year-old and a wife (who's going back to school, which I'm paying for) and an apartment in one of Chicago's best neighborhoods, I've got to keep my eye on the bottom line, wagewise. That makes it hard to find the right work, especially given how employers have been coy about posting pay levels, trying to give themselves the most freedom to lowball would-be hires. Jerks.

Long-term, my aspirations are entirely outside the 925 Grind, of course. But for now, I'm stuck playing the game. I remember as a 20-something, planning for early retirement by the time I was 35. Now I'm almost 37 (come April 16). Whoopsie. Guess I'm behind schedule.

I remember my barometer used to be that Orson Welles did "Citizen Kane" when he was 25, so I was like "Okay, I need to get going on XYZ." 25 came and went, and I spun my wheels. I enjoyed my 20s, but wasn't very disciplined.

I didn't get disciplined until my first son was born, in 2002. That's when clarity intruded on me, like reality: "I could keep going this way forever. I need to get serious about what I want to do with this life."

That's when I really seriously began to write, like 100,000+ words a year. In 2005, I began sending stories out. Nothing's clicked, yet, unfortunately. Even the one acceptance I got last year is delayed because they're having issues with their printer, and my story won't see light until late this year. Frustrating.

Music: Superdrag, "I Guess It's American"