A dream job. A dream career. Oh, how I have spent most of my 29.5 years looking for you. Wherefore art thou dream career? I've searched high and low. I've begged and pleaded with the multiverse (Hawking has recently come to the conclusion this isn't realistic, hasn't he? Such a shame). The formula is so simple. Find your passion + research how to monetize it = you'll never work a day in your life. There's nothing innately wrong with the formula, per se, if your passion allows it. My friend's passion is to travel, so he became a flight attendant. He travels all over and gets paid to do it. It's wonderful for him. For him. For him. Not for everyone. Not for most people. Why? Because a passion doesn't always allow for likely monetization. I'm not saying it's impossible – it's possible to make money doing just about anything. But is it likely? Are the odds in your favor? Now factor in a family. Whatever small odds you already had plummet significantly.
Life isn't a motivational poster, regardless of what 99% of your Facebook and Instagram friends would lead you to believe. Life is hard. Staying alive and afloat is hard. We're not entitled to fuck all. Not in the least. And there's nothing wrong with admitting that, though it might be scary as hell the first time you do. Just like the first time I admitted to myself that being a Catholic was no longer for me. I'd done 8 years in Catholic school. I was baptized. Confirmed. Yet ... no. I couldn't help but feel guilty. Guilty for what? Guilty for betraying God, of course! But, wait, I didn't believe that anymore. So who were my feelings of guilt aimed at? Ah. Myself. I was guilty with myself. But then this weird thing happened. A moment of clarity. I don't remember when. I don't remember where. But it materialized like a melting skull on a bad acid trip. And it felt good. It felt new and scary. But good.
Here's the thing: most of us will never make a decent living through our passions. Mr. Fuckin' Buzzkill, huh? Yeah, well, if I have to realize the truth, so do all of you! This doesn't mean you can't keep trying. It doesn't mean you can't go your entire life failing miserably and still love every second of it. Because odds are, if you understand you're just doing it for the love of the game, good for you. You're one step ahead of most of us. One step ahead of us sad saps who took a little too long to figure that out and are left without much of a choice in the grand scheme.
But when you do realize it? It's magical. It's relieving. And, hey, if one day you find yourself quitting your day job to write novels, play songs, or make dog bow ties and you're still able to fill your stomach, then more power to you. You've done it. You've bucked the system. You're one of the few. Run with it for however long you can and don't look back. You're extremely talented, extremely savvy, and extremely lucky (and don't feel guilty about any of that).
I don't say any of this to discourage anyone. In fact, that's quite the opposite of my intentions. Once you realize you're fighting a losing battle, you can take control of your passion. You can remember why you love what you do and do it for that reason. You can find a way to make a living without resenting whatever it is you're doing. Because, hey, if you enjoy your day job more than you don't, then you've really won. You are probably content with your life more than you're not. That's beautiful. And rare. And not rare for any more reason than most people do things out of necessity not choice. Especially an occupation.
Nothing is easy. Nothing is great all of the time. Nothing. Not your love life. Not your children. Not the meal you order at your favorite restaurant. Nothing.
My passion is to tell stories. I get discouraged when my Amazon ranking isn't as high as I'd like it to be. Or when I find a typo a year after my book has been released. But I know I'm good. I know I can tell a good story and entertain someone. And when that happens, and when someone tells me they've been blown away, it means the world. And that person could be my wife. Or a friend. That's all I need. I can go back to whatever day job I have and know that later that night (or, realistically, very very early the next morning) I can return to what I love and give it my best shot without bringing my world crashing down around me. Around the ones I care about. No, I can't do that. Not because I think I deserve something without actually having it. And I do think I deserve it. But that doesn't mean I'll get it. And it doesn't mean I should get it. It doesn't mean anything.
This is a letter to myself as much as it is to you. But I hope it can help you as much as it'll help me when I feel like burning my hard drive. Take the $3 in royalties you made on that dog bow tie and go buy a cup of coffee. And drink it slowly. Savor it. You've earned it.