I’m a serial committer. Like Einstein, but without the astounding genius. What the heck is that, you ask? A serial committer is someone who gives themselves completely to what they’re working on…until they move on to something else. Basically, it means I function best in a project-oriented environment.
I realized this about myself fairly early on, and sought to find jobs that demanded that type of temperament. Programming. Yep. Teaching. Yep. Manufacturing. Double yep. I even got my certification in Project Management.
The thing was, as much as I love moving every few years (you know, that pesky Air Force thing), it makes career advancement difficult. I didn’t seriously consider writing until I quit my job, got bored, and remembered how much I liked crafting prose.
Turns out writing is a great fit (well, except that I’m not getting paid yet)–since it is by nature project-based–and even meets some of my other ideal career requirements:
- Keeps my brain actively engaged and challenged
- Requires me to constantly learn new things
- Uses creative problem-solving
- Career advancement is tied to performance and skill (combined with determination and a lot of luck)
- I can work when I want, where I want, and wear what I want. (Like working 7-1 on your couch in pajamas? No problem.)
- I work for myself. Like any self-employed person, I (will) have clients rather than bosses. Yes, you still have to give them what they want, but I’m in charge of when and how I do it, as long as I meet their requirements and deadlines.
- It’s fun, and I’d do it for no pay at all. (Good thing, since it could be a while. <g>)
What are your ideal job requirements? If you’re a writer, what makes it the right career for you?
The Daily Squirrel: gum
The boy on the other side of the locker door stared her down and sucked in his gum with a series of loud pops. Kate flinched with each ear-splitting crack, but her gaze didn’t waver in spite of her legs of jelly.
“Hand over the money, Four-eyes,” Dean said with a sneer.
Without looking away from him, she shook her head. “No.” The bullying had gone on long enough. Someone had to stand up to Dean and his gang. Fear prickled her neck, and set an erratic beat within her chest, but she stood firm. “No.”