To the Waitress, Waiting for her Day to Come: Stop Waiting

I used to be a server. At the time, it was the perfect job for me. I was 22, just finishing up college, and honing my social skills after a very introverted childhood. It taught me a ton of valuable things about small talk, humility, and cultivating self-respect in a world that doesn’t operate from a baseline of empathy.

Recently, I thought I’d get a part-time job as a server. It wasn’t some desperate attempt to reclaim the excitement I’d felt in that type of work before; in fact, I was prepared to feel differently about it at 30. I’d take on this fine dining job as a cash cow, freeing me up to explore the riskier, lower-paying work I truly wanted to do in my spare time. I also thought I might meet some cool people in this town that’s still relatively new to me, thus rekindling my flickering social life. I’d finally get back into writing novels again! I wouldn’t have to do the occasionally tedious technical writing I’d been doing for years just to put food in the fridge! It sounded ideal.

It only took two nights of filling waters, running food, scrubbing things, and moving around amid the team to realize I didn’t fit in there. The other servers truly wanted to be there, either for the cash or because they were passionate about food or wine or each other. Some of them were young and spirited, quick to slap a coworker’s ass or drop a joke cloaked as an insult (or was it the other way around?). Some were older “career servers,” full of mistrust or intensity or bitterness, and I couldn’t tell if they were sincerely proud of their work or just egotistical for being at the top of the restaurant food chain. “Fuck” was everybody’s favorite word, and everybody was freaking out, even when things were going smoothly.

It was like walking among hundreds of me, on my very worst freaky-outy day.

My optimism seemed off-putting to them. In fact, the sweeter I was, the snarkier they were. There might have been a time in my life when I would have carried on, acting like them, in order to get them to like me.

But so far, being 30 has felt like waking up: if someone isn’t respectful to me, I can walk away. If I don’t find something funny, I don’t have to laugh. And if I feel like something has to be said, I’ll speak up.

As a result, I feel I’m pretty goddamn genuine, and being genuinely “me” in that environment wasn’t a fit. When half the reason I sought the job was to regain a social life, I took it as a bad sign that most everybody there seemed on-edge, wary.

After deciding the job wasn’t for me, it triggered some introspection about career and the old work-life balance. Motivation is an interesting thing. I used to think money was my main motivator, because who doesn’t want to have money? But if that were the case, I would have held onto that serving job (one party’s ticket was $2,600, for example. The servers at this restaurant make bank). Besides, I’ve had very lean months as a freelance writer, like, only-potatoes-in-the-pantry months, borrowing-from-friends-to-pay-rent months, contemplating-the-feasibility-of-selling-art-out-of-my-car months, yet I’ve stubbornly held onto this work for six years now.

When I was discussing quitting with my partner, he put it so very plainly, yet something about it resonated with me: “You’re a writer,” he said. Not a server. A writer. I have spent years, one could say my whole life, practicing this skill. It doesn’t mean I can’t do other work, but when this is my ability and my passion, why do anything else?

I realized, if some corner of this freelance life isn’t working for me, I can change it. If the problem is money, I need to work with bigger clients. If the problem is isolation, I need to go to conferences and spend my personal time engaged in social activities. It doesn’t mean I have to pursue an entirely different career and risk dividing my attention to the detriment of my passion. I just have to do what I do, better.

This little side quest happened about three months ago. I do not believe in the supernatural, but I do believe we give ourselves nudges in the right direction without realizing it. My writing income and happiness have about tripled since then, and are showing no signs of slowing down.

My advice to other creatives who are toying with switching paths for practical reasons: sit with yourself in silence and think, what am I? If “parent” or “friend who misses her social life” or simply “miserable” comes up, it may be time for a change.

But if that little voice says, “I’m a writer,” put on that pot of coffee, tidy up your desk, and keep on working.

A. Marie is a moderately disheveled freelance writer living in the mountains. She shares freelance writing tips on her website, Amariel.com.