Last night, I had a job interview that lasted an hour and a half. This potential employer and I talked spiritedly and candidly about everything from music to the environment to Telluride to writing to disappointment to, strangely, even Jesus. It was surreal, and wonderful, and stimulating. The job is something that I could excel at, and it might potentially lead to some cool perks. This man seemed impressed by me, calling me a “Renaissance Woman,” which is a very cool thing to be thought of as. It was clear that we had a likely chance at developing a great rapport, and working well together.
But he and I both hesitated. Something just didn’t feel right, and we both acknowledged it.
This job could have been a very cool thing. I mean, seriously cool. Like, hanging out with Keith and Nicole cool. But is that what I want? Is that what I want my life to be about? Is glamour what I am aiming for? In the case of my far-too-slow-growing mop of hair, absolutely. But when it comes down to what makes my heart beat, I realize that it’s not about the perks. It’s not about the bright lights and the fabulous people and the free drinks. It’s not about the tinsel.
I really want to write. And at this point in my life, I am not willing to sacrifice the time and space and flexibility that make writing possible. I want to see where the words and melodies and harmonies and expression might lead.
The decision to pass on the position wound up being far easier than I anticipated. And after a long spell of uncertainty, it feels good to be so sure of what I want.