I graduated two years ago with a degree in English Literature and creative writing from a small midwest Liberal Arts college.
I still don’t have a full-time job.
I can’t complain, really. I do have regular work that pays the bills, but barely.
Right out of college, fresh from an unpaid but rewarding internship at a literary agency in New York City, I got married, moved to Atlanta and worked as a barista at a busy coffee shop. I looked around Atlanta for different writing or publishing positions, but every one I found required years of experience and we needed money.
A year later my wife was accepted into medical school, and so we packed our bags and moved north to Carbondale, Illinois. It’s not a city you should know about. The closest highway is thirty minutes away. The nearest airport is out of state, more than a two hour drive by way of back roads. Most locals would argue that Panera is the nicest restaurant in town.
Surprisingly, Carbondale has a creative marketing agency, and I was invited to tour the office and meet the staff, but after I sent several follow-up emails and received nothing in return, I decided to cut my losses and move on.
But I didn’t.
I wrestled with depression and fought desperately to find inspiration wherever I could, but I inevitably came up short. Not because I didn’t get the job. You win some, you lose some—I get that. But because I had no sense of community. I left good friendships, a fun job, and an artistic environment and moved to a city that had bad coffee and cheap beer. I left good food at great restaurants and farmer’s markets for stale, poorly lit grocery stores and over-priced chain restaurants. To cope, I did what I have always done. I retreated to reruns of The Cosby Show, Home Improvement and The Office, which in turn perpetuated a downward spiral. Instead of eating dinners at the table, my wife and I sat in front of our computer to keep up with shows we hardly liked. And when I wasn’t on Netflix, I was wasting time on social media.
Looking back at it now, as we prepare to move again in just two short weeks, I realize that I did just enough to be enough. I woke up at 4:30 am to write. I fixed breakfast, got my wife to school, then sat down to work by 8. I’d finish what I needed to for the day, then rather than pick up a book, or write, or—you know—go outside and meet people, I’d turn on The Cosby Show. Maybe I’d work out, or maybe I’d just watch one more episode.
And that’s how it went. Day after day. Week after week. Month to month. The stories I did write were terrible and took me far too long to finish. An online journal I cofounded kept getting put on the back burner, and my relationship with my wife suffered. The irony here is that I blamed everything and everyone else. Of course, I wasn’t mad at my wife for getting into medical school and moving us to Southern Illinois (I couldn’t be more proud of her), but how was I supposed to find a job (or find anything for that matter) as a writer in a town of 20,000 people? How was I supposed to be inspired to write in a city that’s taken over by drunken college students by 9 pm? How was I supposed to be in a budding marriage when I hardly saw my wife? How would I become anything if I was “off the grid” during my twenties? When I finally came up for air, would I be irrelevant? Would I still be inexperienced and unemployed? There would be a whole four years of new talent graduating before my wife and I could even consider moving to a bigger city. What would happen to my chances of finding a creative position in those four years?
These are dangerous thoughts. They swallow you whole. They consume you and then spit you out with a dejected demeanor. They leave you wallowing in your own self-pity, repeating lines about Hillman College and pudding pops.
I talked with friends about my frustrations. Some commended my commitment to my wife and the time I put in to take care of the chores. Others sympathized. Those that truly knew me just listened patiently, then reminded me that I was being a selfish ass, that no one was forcing me to waste time and watch television shows, that marriage is about hard work and sacrifice and that with the internet I could connect with anyone and everyone if only I was willing to roll up my sleeves, turn off Netflix, stop making excuses, and get to work.
Of course, they were right. But the truth is, I didn’t really know what it was I wanted to do anymore, or how in the hell I was supposed to get there.
Half of our stuff is already in a new apartment in a new city. The rest of it sits in heaps around our current apartment, floating in and out of boxes marked fragile and stacked against the living room wall. All of our pictures are down, leaving holes that once held photographs of better days. We knew we would only be living in Carbondale for a year when we moved here. Strangely, my wife’s medical school splits their time—one year in Carbondale, the rest in Springfield, Illinois.
A few months ago, I began looking at different job postings again, applying to this, that and the other. Finally, after being rejected from a promising lead, I took a step back and asked the question I should have asked myself a long time ago: what in the hell do I want to do with my life?
To be honest, I’m not sure I ever really asked myself that question. At least not seriously.
My wife has known she wanted to be a doctor since she was a little girl. What’s more impressive—she did everything right. She took AP science courses in high school. She studied Biochemistry and Molecular Biology in college, and then got a job with the CDC in Atlanta before starting the medical school application process. She weighed all of her options, she kept herself relevant with the latest scientific breakthroughs, and she even doubled her shadowing hours to get more exposure to the medical field.
When I was a kid I wanted to be a boxer like my hometown hero, Bronco McKart. When I was in middle school, I wanted to be a teacher like my mother, and then a computer programmer like my father. In high school, I wanted to be a minister, then a psychologist, and then, right before my senior year, I wanted to become a fire fighter and forgo higher education altogether. It wasn’t until I took a tour of my alma mater and met with the chair of the English Department that I realized that there were people like me—people who read and wrote stories for fun—and I decided to study English and creative writing.
It seemed consistent with what my parents had told me from an early age: become whatever you want. So why not become an English major? I’ve since realized they left one important, essential part out.
Become whatever you want, but be prepared to work your ass off for it.
That’s the one thing people don’t tell you. Or maybe they do and we (in)conveniently forget to see the hard work, sacrifice and failure that every person has endured to get where they are.
I know a lot of aspiring artists (including myself) who idealize their craft to a fault. They look up to those that either have the success, the prestige, or the financial security they want, and they look for that magic pill that will help them get there too. Because those that have succeeded certainly didn’t get where they are now with failure and missteps, hard work and sacrifice. It must have been handed to them. They must have known someone who knew someone.
I started looking for the failure. When I read interviews with artists, or spoke with creative professionals, I made a point to look for the failure. I wanted to see what people had to say about their mistakes. I wanted to know where they messed up, why they messed up, and how they got back on their feet and kept moving forward. I wanted to understand just how much work writers and artists put into their craft. Moreover, I needed that validation. I needed to know that it didn’t just suck for me. That I wasn’t the only one that felt lost and confused.
And I found it. I found it in every interview I read. Writers who talked about manuscripts that were rejected. Songwriters that vented about albums that didn’t sell. Visual artists that talked about living in their parent’s basement, eating their parent’s food, and making artwork they sold for a few dollars with materials that—you guessed it—their parents bought. But they made it. And why did they make it?
Because they didn’t sit down behind the television and let their time pass by. They didn’t make excuses, or blame others for their failure. No—they kept their heads down, they created work, they failed , they created more work, and failed again, then again, and then again, until finally…
Creativity is a fickle lady. She is kind to no one. Like fire, she only appears when you work hard for her, striking coarse flint against the grit of your determination. She will not come when you’re hiding behind self-doubt, distracted by the television. She will not visit you when you are idle, doubtful, remorseful. She only sings for those that sing for her. She only opens for those that chase her tirelessly.
I’m a writer.
I’ve said that for a while, but there is a difference in saying it and knowing it. And that difference is everything. It’s the difference between stop and go, between sit and stand. It’s the difference between failure and failing. Because one is crippling and permanent, and the other ensures progress.
For one to be failing, one must continually be working. For one to be failing, one must say enough is enough, turn off Netflix, stop complaining and get to work.
Paul Hile is a writer and co-founder of the Byway Collective. When he’s not watching The Cosby Show, or cleaning the dishes, he writes columns and works for a small indie book publisher. Paul is currently looking for a full-time position (and a dishwasher), and is accepting new work for copy writing. If you’re interested in speaking with Paul further, send him a direct message via Twitter.
