Quiet Quitter?
Hell, I never started!
What do you want to do when you grow up? Uh, stay up as late as I want, never have to eat liver or potatoes, move to New York City and become a famous artist.
That would always get the grownups laughing. Mom rolled her eyes.
The truth of it is that I never dreamed of being or doing anything associated with work or a job or, heaven help me, a career. It’s not that I lack passion, you understand, I simply never have felt any particular passion for work (that bit about being a famous artist in New York was just an effective way to get the adults to titter and back TF off).
True, I was compulsively drawing on any available surface before I could write my name.
And, ok, yes I did write my first novel when I was ten.
You didn’t? You’re kidding.
But work?
Why?
I saw what work did to people. Daddy was a mechanic at the local Ford dealership and a more miserable man I have never known. I might have had a different take on this whole question of work if I’d grown up around professional people, people with careers, people whose life work made a difference in the world. I grew up strictly blue-collar. Work was the curse of the drinking class where I grew up (nod to a personal hero of mine).
