The Magician

I'm envious of Molly Young's writing career. Scratch that, if I could start all over, I will have a resume like hers, writing for the best magazines in the country and doing fun stuff and writing about it, which is what writers get paid to do. But bills need to get paid, doctor's appointments made, and a savings fund built; the erratic income of a freelance writer isn't included in my "plans." I just recently received medical and dental insurance, and quite frankly, I'm quite late in the game.

I was fortunate to have avoided accidents or any expensive surgeries (save for my wisdom teeth extraction, paid for in cash, from my barista tips and catering gigs). And so I go to my hideously boring and derivative job, where I invest in milking the most productivity out of the employees and deal with irate clients, and stare at financial statements.

The Microsoft executive told me my eyes lit up when I talk about books, writing and spending all my time living the writer's life--courtesy of my independent study curriculum. I don't think I've ever lit up in a work meeting, or even when the department made record-breaking sales.

The happiest I've ever been cashing out a check is when I received the money in exchange for my writing--$2500 to be exact. I didn't know I could be this happy receiving money from services rendered. Mostly I just feel smug and bitter after every paycheck arrives in my checking account; like there isn't enough money in this world to make me fall in love with my line of work all over again.

It's a beautiful snowy afternoon in Montreal and I spent most of it writing a paper for classes that doesn't even start til April. I should be on vacation, a sabbatical of sorts for the overtired body, and the weary mind. Yet I spend most afternoons beside the sun-lit sliding doors typing away, weaving words into magic.