As I said before, this new writing journey of mine is new but not new. I’ve just never devoted time and worked to hone the craft of writing like I’m doing now. Still, when does one consider themselves a “writer”—when the words hit the page (or, more accurately, the screen)? Or before, when they percolate in the brain, grasped from the eternal ether, swirling into formation until recognized as words, phrases, clauses? Or after, when one is paid for one’s words, the business transaction cementing the job title into existence?
When Is a Job a Job and Not a Hobby?
One doesn’t even have to consider my question of becoming a writer. Let’s play pick a profession:
Doctor – are you a “pro” when you receive your M.D. or when you treat your first patient, all by yourself, and bill that insurance company?
Babysitter – when you watch your younger siblings, thus assuming responsibility, or when you get paid to watch a neighbor’s kid? You get the gist.
I think most of us starting out in life consider the textbook definition of the word professional: “engaged in a specified activity as one’s main paid occupation rather than a pastime.” Payment legitimizes the act and makes one’s time worthwhile.
Now, arguments could easily (and rightfully) be made that the term worthwhile is quite objective. Is it worthwhile to volunteer at a food kitchen or an animal shelter? Of course! Yet, volunteers aren’t paid for their time…again, by definition. But I think most of us consider a “job” to be something we do that earns money, a salary to some degree.
That Moment The Job Becomes Legit
I still remember the first time I got paid for doing what I earmarked as my chosen career. I’d earned money before. As a child I got an allowance—which came and went, probably based upon my parents’ access to disposable income—for doing chores like vacuuming, unloading the dishwasher, etc. But as I didn’t set my sights on becoming a maid when I grew up, I don’t think this pocket money counts.
Nope, I wanted to be a dancer. Cue the twirling, tutu-wearing jewelry box plastic doll en pointe.
Actually, I had no delusions of becoming a ballerina. Ballet hurts. How I came away from 8 years in pointe shoes with my toes intact and no bunions is, quite simply, a medical miracle. But ballet is the core of dance training, so of course I had regular classes several times a week. Oh, and then I discovered jazz.
Back in the late ’70s and early ‘80s when I started training seriously, Bob Fosse’s Chicago was a Broadway smash. By the time I started thinking, hmm, maybe I could do this, I spent a weekend in NYC and saw a double billing of A Chorus Line and Fosse’s Dancin’. I was awestruck at the movement, the passion, the impeccable technique, the tap, the jazz, the modern dance, especially the version which now is known as contemporary. Back then we called it lyrical. Ballet fused with jazz peppered with modern/free movement served on a bed of emotion and passion. Contemporary was my jam!
I was 14, in 8th grade, when I first earned cash for my talent. The middle school talent show. I did a spiffy little solo—a jazz dance I normally performed with my dance company adjusted to showcase just me onstage alone. There were several acts—piano recitals, comedy (and I use that term loosely) skits, a few singers, and a rock band. They were the final act of the talent show.
The garage band consisted of musicians from high school. But their bass player was a fellow 8th grader. Supposedly, he was the only one being judged. How the judges were to determine his level of talent, comparing only his bass playing exclusive of his fellow musicians’ efforts, is beyond me. But I can tell you, they rocked hard! The audience went nuts because, well, 1979 rock’n’roll, dude. I can’t remember what they played. But when they finished, screaming tweens and teens frenzied as if they’d just experienced The Beatles. Then came time for the judging.
Third place, and winner of a $25 gift certificate to Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlour…the piano player.
Second place, and winner of $50 cash…the bass player from the garage band. (Yup, here come the “Booo!”s; apparently the audience didn’t care the stone-faced bass player with zero stage presence was the only rocker being evaluated.)
And First Place, and winner of a crisp, new $100 bill…(still with the “Booo!”s, more and louder) Wendy Hawkes with her jazz dance solo!!
I couldn’t believe my ears. Not that they’d called my name. Nor that I had to go accept my winnings before an angry crowd, frenzied now for a different reason. The contest had to be rigged! Couldn’t blame them; the band was great. But I guess the bass lick needed some work.
I got home and pressed that virgin Benjamin Franklin against my face. I inhaled its Treasury Department ink. I’d never seen a hundred dollar bill before. That was SO MUCH MONEY. And it was all mine! Because I’d earned it, doing what I loved, what I was so passionate about, what I was now convinced was going to be my career. But winning a contest still didn’t quite feel like I was a paid professional dancer.
When a Passion Becomes a Job Becomes a Career
Me as a teenaged professional dancer
The next year, an independent choreographer came to teach a few master classes at my dance studio. He singled me and another girl out to accompany him in a piece he was choregraphing for a show. The show would pay, but it was just one performance. We rehearsed, arranged for matching costumes, and performed the piece at the annual Mason’s Club meeting of some sort or another. It was not Broadway. It was barely even on a stage. But at the end of the night, he placed a $50 bill in my hand—my take for the performance.
Now I’d been paid for performing for the sole purpose of entertaining a paying audience. I’d “engaged in a specified activity as one’s main paid occupation,” a professional dancer, at age 15. It was just the start. Though I’ve had many careers since then.
So now, as I turn to my eighth—ninth?—career, this time as a fledgling writer, I can actually say I’m a professional. It’s only been one gig, but it’s a start. I sold an article to Insider Magazine and they signed a contract stating they wanted to pay me for my words. Ha! It’s all a bit surreal, but here’s the proof, my first ever published writing.
How Do You Keep the Music Playing?
The big challenge is to keep doing it. When one has a nine-to-five or brick and mortar to go to, there’s direct accountability. Show up, do your job, get paid. Freelancing is more challenging.
Who’s holding me accountable? Me. That’s a terrifying predicament! But I’m committed to not be a one-trick pony. I’ll keep pitching articles and keep plugging away at my manuscript. Because the only one standing in my way, in truth, is me.
It’s my dream. And I have a track record of making my dreams come true.
Please share in the Comments what dreams you’ve gone after and seen to fruition (I love inspiration!) and/or your first job memory, when you palmed that first paycheck.
My writing desk onboard Aquatania, with snacks
I’m intrigued by your grasp, or perhaps I should say, your sense of direction, Wendy, in seeking your professions along the way. Me, I just slid into mine.
I had no clue who or what I wanted to be. After college, I worked circulation for a boating newspaper and glided over to the editorial department as researcher, to then be drafted as, first, a proof-reader backup for the copy desk and, later, a writer of brief race reports as well as lengthy boat show stories. I did not have a career goal in journalism, but I was a quick study in learning writing styles (do I know AP style? Sure, where’s the style book?)
In that part of my work journey, the environment (boats!) was key. Environment also played a part in what I thought would be my next career. My daughter lived a year and a half of her two years and a day in hospitals, first at Yale, next at Sloan-Kettering, and then back at Yale. The Yale School of Nursing taught me, as the caregiver Mom, how to fill syringes, shake bubbles out of IV lines, set up TPN and hydration. I even drew blood on my own child … so those purple-top tubes required by the NY research department for the “phase therapy” (read: experimental medicine) would get filled and allow us to escape to Cape Cod for a week out of the hospital.
Yep, I thought my next calling would be as a nurse. But when it all came to a screeching halt, I found I had the shakes driving by hospitals, especially on the highway going by New York.
The next corner I turned was to bring me back to a long-time fascination with computer technology. I had had a brush with punch cards in college in a couple of Marketing courses, and while working circulation I got to see more of them in action at our outside data processing center. We finally brought tech into the publishing company with a mini computer (think 4’X6’xX3’) with dumb terminals and 8-track backups. Boom — editorial, circulation, typesetting and the dark room were tied in. It was exciting.
I lucked out and was chosen by the publisher to go learn all about the programs we would be using for the paper. Although I was still working circulation at the time, I got to teach the software to the rest of the staff in several departments (becoming useful to the editorial department, I suppose). And that became a regular part of my job.
After I lost my daughter, I had another little girl and strove to get my balance back. By the time she was in nursery school I was ready to go back to school myself. I took a 5th-year certificate in “IS with microcomputers”.
It was the era of desktop computers: television-chunky monitors and massive towers which I juggled down staircases to bring back to my home office for repairs. It was a time of executives, used to immediate help-desk service enjoyed at their corporate headquarters, now retired and still needing a problem solver.
It was a time of amusing virus afflictions on operating systems — my bread and butter because too many people just could not resist opening that odd email. I was busy. I had a flexible-time job that let me be a Mom too. Each broken machine brought me farther away from nightmares of past years. So many nice people I met along the way — that was the best of all! I ran with it all the way to retirement. And then my husband and I moved aboard our boat, to sail in turquoise waters each winter. I think karma is real.
What a great tale that came full circle, starting out in boating and retiring to boating. Kudos! I find it fascinating the different careers folks have over their lives. You’ve had a great range, even though some never came into being as “pro” careers. Thanks for sharing! I love hearing how people interact with, or fall into, writing careers.