I write because I breath. I’ve spoken those words since I wrote my first short story in the second grade- it was called Peanut Butter and Fluff are Friends. I can still see the crayon drawing of the cats on the front. I can still feel the thrill of excitement when I was invited to share with the class; knowing it was well written and knowing I had succeeded in the teacher’s eyes. I like approval, and a byline – likely why I became a writer for a living.

From the second grade until a year or so ago, I wrote something; a diary entry, a journalistic story for publication, thank you notes, notes to friends, essays, etc…When people asked what I did, I proudly declared that I was a writer. And I believed that it defined me, and it was who I was – it brought light to my life and delivered me from pain and confusion daily.

Then it happened. The muse died. Okay, to be honest she was killed, hacked to death in public by a mean person to whom I gave too much power. Her name doesn’t matter, but she was my first real full time employer since the birth of my first child 20 years ago. I had always been self-employed as a freelance writer. I wrote for local publications, ran writing groups and was regularly published in magazines and newspapers, but I had not set foot in a full time job since the birth of my eldest. The year he left for college, I decided it was time to venture out.

I applied for numerous jobs. I had numerous interviews. I applied for jobs above me, below me and that spoke to me. I believed I could do anything I set my mind to and do it well. I met my future boss. She was looking for a publicist – someone who would write press releases, ghost write articles for all industries, co-mingle with the stars via email and phone to get her clients noticed. This was a job I believed to be above me but three interviews and four hours later, I was hired. I may add the salary was more money than I had ever made before, and I was excited to pay my son’s tuition. I felt accomplished.

All started well. In my first 90 days, I was in regular contact with Ellen DeGeneres team for a client; getting closer everyday. I had written pieces picked up by local media and Boston news station anchors. I had a personal conversation with Susan Wornick, and I wrote numerous pieces on the banking and mortgage industry – all of which were published in major media outlets under someone else’s name (remember, I was a ghost writer), and I was regularly told how amazing I was at writing. However, there was more to the job than the writing – there was the shmoosing, and for my boss there was a lot of lying (including lying about my credentials when a client complained, something I was soooooo not okay with)! In fact, the boss lied so often she would come in each morning to fill me in on her list of lies in case I was contacted by a client. We needed to be on the same page.

The hours were great, the pay unbelievable, my joy non-existent and getting worse each day. And then one day, she wrote a scathing blog about me; she spoke of how little she liked me, how much I was exactly who I told her I was (re: I’m a writer first), she called me names and defined me in very unflattering terms, and then she posted the blog on her business page, her Facebook page and online for all the world to see; changing the names to protect the guilty, as she said.

I should note that by the time the blog went live, I had terminated my employment with her as I was uncomfortable with the two-faced lies told daily in the office, the workload or lack of depending on the day, and the general feeling of malaise that accompanied me daily. I found myself sobbing openly for the first time in many, many years over yet another assignment that I was sure to fail. I was a mess!

Terrific friends ushered me to the door and did their best to build me back up. I had two interviews quickly on the heels of this horror, and failed both of them. One was to write for an online publication and I was told that I failed the writing portion of the test. Funny, the company went under a month later. The other, hired me, but the muse was dead. Writing a simple meeting story put me in a cold sweat. I didn’t sleep at night. I panicked often. I didn’t take the job.

Finally, I came home for good, with my husband’s blessing as he claimed to miss the “real me” and accepted the loans for my son’s education.

I picked up my camera, surrounded myself with great people and I began to shoot said camera daily. My pictures were well received, and I started to feel like myself again. I was offered a freelance writing gig (which I still hold today), and I found my alpacas. The peace those animals brought to me at a time of such turmoil is a blog for another day, but suffice it to say I found my way home.

This morning, I have two potential job offers on my plate – one to write and one to work with special education children; something I did last spring as a sub to fill my time. Both feel like home.

Where will the next chapter take me? I don’t know.  I do know peace, ‘pacas and pictures have served their purpose to bring my soul back home, and that no job is worth the malaise that settled like a dark cloud over my soul.

I believe in light,  life,  authenticity, and joy. Mostly,  I believe my muse is finding her way back home on the wings of dragonflies and their luminescent wings.