I often wonder why I quit. Quit jobs, quit careers, quit projects. My father taught me perseverance. His mantra was: Don’t quit! I remember when I started the School of Journalism right out of high school and stayed for one year, then flunked several exams and had to quit. He was livid. Never seen him that angry and disappointed. I was sad but really, I wasn’t ready.
Is that it? That I’m not ready? I graduated with a master degree after six straight years, through community college and universities. I started at forty-three and finished at forty-nine. But then I quit. Left the PhD studies in the dust.
I have always been fascinated by the Arts. Since I was a young girl I have scribbled, spelled, sketched at every opportunity. Been telling stories. Been setting up plays. But I grew up and became an adult. Had children and needed to work. I found a match in the hospitality world. Few hours and maximum pay, serving guests. Work and leave.
It fit my motherhood. Twenty intense years of motherhood, which I quit going into to college. After my master degree, I focused on a painting career. Spent a few years being active, exhibiting, curating, and producing. Stalemate. Time to pursue that PhD degree.
Now in my fifties, I gave it a go. Lectured, too. Spent another five years in academia. But then I quit. Back to my art, this time, writing, too. Writing blogs, stories, memoir, and the important journal. I enjoy it. Sitting on my bum for hours every day. But my many projects grow and expand slowly. Often, I feel like quitting.
All through the years, I’ve had some kind of job, mostly part-time. One, two years in one position before I quit. A couple of full-time jobs that lasted one to two years. Never found my niche in the job market. It is the Arts that pull. I guess I’m not quitting that.