The Post In Which I Talk About Quitting My Job To Spend More Time On My Art (Seriously)

I thought the extreme right-wingers were being sarcastic when they said that, under a “socialist” Obama administration, I wouldn’t have to work anymore and all my needs would be taken care of. Turns out they were right. As I hinted over the weekend, thanks to a grant from the Rasmuson Foundation, I’m leaving Ye Olde Law Firm in January to spend a few months focusing on my novel. (Side Note: I know what you’re thinking: Isn’t that what you were supposed to do in graduate school? Technically, you are correct; however, I was too busy in graduate school to spend entire days writing. Ironic, isn’t it?) As I look ahead to the long winter weeks filled with almost no obligations beyond writing (and teaching a class or two, and keeping up on a few ongoing freelance gigs), I am overtaken by a sense of impending satisfaction so overwhelming it almost gives me the strength to stop stressing out about the fifteen gazillion things I have to do between now and then. But landing a grant wasn’t an angst-free experience (because hey! Is anything I do angst-free?).

Let me tell you a story about how I almost didn’t get that Rasmuson grant.

Way back in August, as you may recall, I attended a lesbian wedding. This particular wedding was held at Alpenglow, which is on top of a mountain and requires making a long drive up a windy gravel road. In hindsight, had I realized that DJ Encyclopedia Brown was doing the reception, I would have called his girlfriend, High School Classmate Leslie, and suggested we carpool. But I didn’t, and I didn’t take the wedding shuttle from downtown. I drove. Because I like to do things the hard way. My car has all-wheel drive, and consequently I’ve never bought snow tires. I just use all-weather tires year-round. I was starting to rethink this approach to driving after last winter’s tree incident, and I planned to buy winter tires in September. All-weather tires are softer than regular summer tires, and therefore somewhat of a liability on gravel roads.

You see where this is going.

No, I didn’t suffer a blowout on the way up to Alpenglow or the way down – as far as I know. I drove home safely. And the next day I printed out my Rasmuson grant application and set out to get to Kinko’s, make a copy, and take my important package out to the airport post office, which is the only post office open on Sundays, in order to get it postmarked by that night’s deadline. I thought the car seemed a little off-kilter as I left Kinko’s, copies safely made, and made a mental note to check my tires when I got to the post office.

Except I didn’t get to the post office. I was stopped in a driveway when a man ran up and knocked on my window.

“Your rear tire’s flat,” he said.

“Like, really flat?” I asked.

“Like, really flat,” he said.

I pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot. My rear tire was flat. Like, really flat. I called MLB. He couldn’t come help me. I pulled out the donut (Side Note: Why would Volvo give me a good jack but only a sissy girl tire iron and a stupid baby spare?) and called my brother. He pulled up a few minutes later and the dogs barked at one another from their respective cars while we removed my super-flat tire and replaced it with the donut.

“You want me to follow you to the tire place?” the Brubster asked.

“I’ll be okay,” I said.

“I’ll follow you to the tire place,” he said.

So he followed me to the tire place.

Which was closed.

Because it was the Sunday of Labor Day weekend.

So he followed me home, where I put the car in the garage to wait out the weekend on its stopgap donut. (Side Note: Later I told my dad I needed to get the tire replaced. He asked if I was sure I would need it replaced and not just fixed. I was pretty sure, I said. Turns out I was right. There was no fixing it. So I ended up with new winter tires and new summer tires. Thanks again, Jay Hammond.)

Meanwhile, my Rasmuson grant application had not been mailed, and evening was fast approaching.

Would I make it to the post office on time?

Would all my hard work be in vain?

And whatever happened to the time bomb ticking away in the trunk of my car???

Okay, sorry. Just trying to build up a little suspense. There was no bomb. My car doesn’t even have a trunk. It’s a station wagon.

MLB picked me up for dinner that night and we stopped off at the post office, where I made sure the clerk understood explicitly that my envelope absolutely had to be postmarked before midnight. Don’t think, though, that I didn’t toss and turn all night worrying that he didn’t understand me and that my application (in its special bought-at-Kinko’s super-heavy-duty unbendable mailer) was going to languish in a bin until the following morning and would be summarily discarded by the Rasmuson people due to my failure to manage something as simple as getting it mailed on time. I did. All night and for several nights afterward.

But clearly that didn’t happen, because a couple of weeks ago I got a phone call from a very nice woman who wanted to give me five thousand dollars so I could stop working full-time for a few months and finish my novel. I’m going to spend the winter and spring focusing on being a full-time emerging novelist, which feels just as indulgent as it sounds.

Go ahead; it’s okay. I kind of hate me, too.