In honor of the new Glee season (just added the final four discs from season 2 to the Netflix queue . . . or should I say *ahem* Qwikster queue), here you go:
So what do I say to taking chances? Well, I'm kind of a risk adverse person. Sure, I've had my share of brave moments, but for the most part the thought of being uncomfortable makes me uncomfortable. Fear of failure tends to debilitate me.
I've spend a good amount of time on this blog talking about freelance writing and the day when I'll be self-employed with my writing. Obviously, I'm not there yet. Although I tell myself I'm being prudent, that I'm taking my time and building up clients and work so when I do go to writing full-time, it won't be so scary, after a certain point, prudence turns into stalling.
And stalling is a way to keep all those little voices in my head at bay. What if there's not enough work? What if there's not enough money? What if I . . . *gulp* fail?
We've reached the point in the season at work where it's time to have "the talk." If you've ever temped or worked seasonally, you know what I'm talking about. "The talk" is that wonderful conversation with your work superiors where you talk about future plans like they're something concrete and you make important and unalterable decisions about contract extensions.
While theoretically, I should have had all summer to think of what I'll say during this talk and whether or not I'll sign on for another year, the truth is, I'm as muddled about how I feel about the whole thing now as I was in May. A big part of me wants to kiss this charade of me pretending to be a museum curator good-bye. The less impulsive side of me tells me I'm not quite ready to be off all by myself in work world yet. Where will the money come from?
"Maybe don't garden next year," my friend Sarah said on Monday as I regaled her once again about my torn feelings about my employment options. "Sign the contract, work at the museum again next year, but spend your spare time focused on getting yourself set up for freelancing."
Don't garden?
It was horrifying thought. You mean, I'd have to give up something I love in order to get where I claim I want to be? How would I make it through the long winter if I didn't have seeds to start at the end of March?
But Sarah, who is by far more career focused and as such, much more successful than I am, had a point. I've been distracting myself with hobbies: canning, gardening, knitting. As much as I love them, as much satisfaction as they give me, I might just be using them as crutches. I could keep complaining about not having enough time to have it all, or I could . . . alter how I use my time. I'll repeat: it was a horrifying . . . horrifying thought. She'd just pointed out that I was the stick in the mud who created the situations I like to complain about.
So, what do I say to taking chances?
I'm not quite sure yet. Change is as scary as chances. But sometimes they're both necessary.
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So what do I say to taking chances? Well, I'm kind of a risk adverse person. Sure, I've had my share of brave moments, but for the most part the thought of being uncomfortable makes me uncomfortable. Fear of failure tends to debilitate me.
I've spend a good amount of time on this blog talking about freelance writing and the day when I'll be self-employed with my writing. Obviously, I'm not there yet. Although I tell myself I'm being prudent, that I'm taking my time and building up clients and work so when I do go to writing full-time, it won't be so scary, after a certain point, prudence turns into stalling.
And stalling is a way to keep all those little voices in my head at bay. What if there's not enough work? What if there's not enough money? What if I . . . *gulp* fail?
We've reached the point in the season at work where it's time to have "the talk." If you've ever temped or worked seasonally, you know what I'm talking about. "The talk" is that wonderful conversation with your work superiors where you talk about future plans like they're something concrete and you make important and unalterable decisions about contract extensions.
While theoretically, I should have had all summer to think of what I'll say during this talk and whether or not I'll sign on for another year, the truth is, I'm as muddled about how I feel about the whole thing now as I was in May. A big part of me wants to kiss this charade of me pretending to be a museum curator good-bye. The less impulsive side of me tells me I'm not quite ready to be off all by myself in work world yet. Where will the money come from?
"Maybe don't garden next year," my friend Sarah said on Monday as I regaled her once again about my torn feelings about my employment options. "Sign the contract, work at the museum again next year, but spend your spare time focused on getting yourself set up for freelancing."
Don't garden?
It was horrifying thought. You mean, I'd have to give up something I love in order to get where I claim I want to be? How would I make it through the long winter if I didn't have seeds to start at the end of March?
But Sarah, who is by far more career focused and as such, much more successful than I am, had a point. I've been distracting myself with hobbies: canning, gardening, knitting. As much as I love them, as much satisfaction as they give me, I might just be using them as crutches. I could keep complaining about not having enough time to have it all, or I could . . . alter how I use my time. I'll repeat: it was a horrifying . . . horrifying thought. She'd just pointed out that I was the stick in the mud who created the situations I like to complain about.
So, what do I say to taking chances?
I'm not quite sure yet. Change is as scary as chances. But sometimes they're both necessary.
