I’m good for it. You know, giving up. I’m fiercely committed until I’m just not. I turned 26 and lost my parental health insurance. So I went on a hunt for a full-time job. You know, with benefits, and 401Ks and FSAs. That’s what we’re supposed to do, right? Grow up and work 9-5s, chained to desks and phones all day. That’s what my parents do.

I landed a great job as a Creative Recruiter. I helped people with enough guts to pursue their dreams. I watched writers, art directors, and aspiring production artists land jobs. While my stint as a Creative Recruiter wouldn’t have lasted long, it was especially difficult because I’m a writer, spending six figures on what most consider a waste of time (MFA in Writing), helping others do what I should be doing. I’m restless. I’m a typical, wandering, ever-unsatisfied millennial, who wants to work for no one, who wants to be creative and travel and never use alarm clocks.

So, in the last four years I’ve had six jobs and three internships. (None that really focused on my writing.) As much as I want to write, I’m scared shitless of not having adequate health insurance or a steady this or that. Even more, I’m scared of actually succeeding at it. You know, actually making a living writing about what I think or experience, sharing myself with strangers.

My last day as a Creative Recruiter was May 2nd. While I’ll miss those steady paychecks and those thankful emails from talent that I helped place, I’ve got to give writing a fair chance. And, it’s starts with this first blog post. Not my first blog post ever, but my first post at theflightymuse. I’m accepting that I’m flighty and hoping to capitalize on who I am. I’m flighty, wandering, temperamental, and no longer afraid to write about it. So until my creativity fails me: Corporate America, kick rocks.