I was on the phone with my boss the other night because she's awesome and I love talking to her. She's retiring when I graduate (not because of that, but coincidentally) and offered me her job. I paused for a moment, caught my breath, and told her no thank you.
This is a lot to think about. On one hand, I came here to write. This is the mid-point of a mountain I decided to climb when I quit my publishing job in corporate hell to work for a rugby magazine on the Upper West Side. In the moment where my bitch-ass project manager refused to help me with a task, telling me it should be "old hat" by now and I discovered my co-workers were talking smack about me on the internet I had this wave of clarity: this is not the life I want.
And so I started doing things I wanted, even if they weren't safe or lucrative. I wore rugby shorts to work every day. I took off for three weeks to drive across the country. I picked up Corky and we moved to Pittsburgh for graduate school so I could write. I want to write. I want to immerse myself in others' lives and spend my days learning interesting things like this or this. It's what I want from the world.
On the other hand, I love tutoring those students. The only jobs I've held for over a year were my four years' tutoring at Penn State and my now three years tutoring here. The only bosses I've had who weren't mad hatters in a bad way were writing center directors. The people I turn to for advice in life are my current and first boss. Also, this job is a university job, with university benefits and a lovely salary. When I close my eyes, I can imagine myself with gray hair sitting behind a desk in the writing center giving high five to a student who just earned a great grade and that image makes me smile. But will it be enough to make up for the lifetime of adventure I might lose?
I think writing centers will always be around for me somewhere. I am going to be a starving artist.