I am absolutely, dead tired of looking for work. I’ve been at it since March. At first I thought I was never going to teach again, so I started a Google Data Analyst certificate. I got pretty far. I started this blog, browsed freelance writing gigs, decided I didn’t want to make thirteen cents an hour. I set up a Carrd for special education consulting. I even invented an alter ego who does intelligence work, because doing learning support internationally is basically that anyway.
No dice.
So a few weeks ago I circled back to teaching jobs. I applied to NGOs, paid seventy-five dollars for a subscription to the international schools database, color-coded a spreadsheet, got my references lined up. I sent out applications for this year and even the 26-27 school year. One NGO rejected me. Another nibbled, asked for interview times. I sent them. Silence since.
Meanwhile my border collie brain has been running in circles: the water went out for hours last week, there’s a national strike about diesel prices (I’m with the Indigenous people on this one), and today the power was supposed to go out too.
So I thought. And thought. And finally said: fuck it. I’m going to work on the book.
Eight years ago I wrote a 227-page sci-fi draft called Matter. I printed it, put it in a binder, posted about it on Facebook. A handful of likes, zero comments. No one ever brought it up again. I thought writing a draft was a big deal. Apparently it wasn’t. So I shelved it, became a teacher, and tried not to care.
After my divorce I printed it again, tried revising during a week alone, and realized it was a shitty draft. Back it went to the shelf.
But this week, with job apps marinating, I opened the original 2018 file. Made an outline doc, character sheets, grabbed a notebook. Started reading it like a scientist. And it’s… actually not that bad. It needs structure, some connective tissue, and a main character with more guts. But the bones are good.
She’s a stay-at-home wife abducted by aliens, chased by the CIA. It’s about power and loss, about having to let go of everything to make something new. About when to hold on and when to let go. At the end you’re living a life you never imagined. There’s love and heartbreak and the unraveling of an old identity.
Seven years ago I thought I’d never leave that rust-belt house, vacuuming dog-hair dust bunnies and cooking for people who barely tolerated my menu ideas. Instead, in less than a year I’ve slept on five continents. I’ve eaten ragu in Bologna, heard the Ramadan cannon, fought through Istanbul duty-free, watched a Quebec lake thaw in spring. Now I’m nestled in mountains south of the equator, listening to thunderstorms that never quite rain.
Until I figure out where I’m going next, I can straighten out Matter. Test the beams, change the drapes, pick new furniture. Keep my brain from chewing itself to bits. Maybe even live the dream of seeing my name on a spine.
The me from seven years ago would barely be able to breathe with happiness. I’m very much doing it for her.