The writer considers.
Got in late last night from Denver (the drive from LR airport to here was longer than the flight.) And now, rested, a little travel weary, and coming down from big-city busy-ness and the ego-necessities of job interviews, I’m here…and full of thoughts.
The people were great at the company where I interviewed. The pace of city living was not unknown—not five minutes in the mile’s walk to the restaurant for dinner, I was sailing on city-legs at NYC pace.
I am awaiting a call from the CD at the wonderful shop where I interviewed in Birmingham. I am taking the morning away from everything to settle back in to Everything, sadly neglected over the past few days.
Now the questions begin. The inner dialog.
“How would you feel about moving to Denver?” the wonderful HR woman asked me. It was the same question that the folks in Bham asked. The same question that the folks anywhere ask. You’d expect them to.
The answer is simple. And deeper. And more complex.
Unlike the ad-biz in NYC, one cannot simply walk a block and find another place to go. As a writer in smaller markets, one goes where the opportunity is…to a place with great creative and attitude and people and work-life balance, in a vibrant new city. If one wants to work and to reap the rewards of a job in all the definitions of that word, those are the things that one looks forward to in moving
The rest is a little more complicated. Because everything is a trade.
Moving to a new city is an adventure. And stressful. It always is. Especially for a “stayer”, a nester, as I am.
The familiar place that one treasures as home doesn’t start out that way. It requires finding a felicitous home. And packing. And moving. And unpacking. And locating grocery stores and gyms and drugstores and tailors and Asian food markets and dentists. It means having a new address to remember and a new satellite dish installed and new checks to order. Etcetera. Etcetera. It’s exhausting. The work of fiction that has been my daily life is set aside. It must be.
And then there’s here.
The view out the back window. The other view out the front door. The owls that call at night in this quiet valley. The eagles that fly overhead. The knowing of every stone and tree. The utter peace of a sleeping and traffic-less road under sky white with stars. Tough to compete with that…sometimes, I think, impossible.
Do I want to work? Yes. Do I want the things that work can bring me—emotionally, professionally and financially? Yes.
It’s a little premature to get my underwear in a tangle over a job that has not yet even been offered, negotiated or accepted. But. Will I cry if I must leave this place to find those things that make a job worth having?