Itchy Feet

Yesterday was a beautiful sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky, warm temperatures, and me stuck in the office staring at the bland four walls of my pod. I escaped for lunch to drive across the harbour for my chiro appointment and as I’m driving back, windows down, Our Lady Peace blaring on the radio and the wind in my hair--it hits me. That feeling. The one I get every year. The one that lasts from late May to early October.

Itchy feet.

The overwhelming urge to chuck it all, pack a few belongings and the dog in my car and just drive. Doesn’t matter where. The destination is inconsequential. It’s the freedom I’m after. The heady sense of having no one to answer to and nothing to do but drive on the open road, going nowhere in particular. No job expecting me to be there by 9 am each morning. No bills or creditors breathing down your neck demanding payment. No household chores that must be done. No people pulling you back expecting you to stay. Just pure, unadulterated liberty from everything tying me down.

In the end, I think that’s why writing full time is such an important goal to me. It embodies the freedom I crave. Not that it isn’t a lot of hard work, because it is, but it’s a different kind of work. It’s a work filled with passion and in that is a sense of freedom you don’t find in a job that just pays the bills.

To me, writing full time is the emotional equivalent of jumping in my car on a sunny summer day and driving with the windows down, the wind in my hair, my favorite song on the radio, and no set destination in mind.