I’ve been at my hospital job for awhile. It’ll be five years, toward the end of February. For a handful of months, I’ve been seriously considering my leaving it. Well, as seriously as not having another job lined up, not even any solid idea of where else to go, will allow. My finances are about to improve, having finally completed debt resolution through a third-party; and the stresses of the job have been increasingly draining me, causing my writing to severely suffer. And regarding my writing, I’m beginning steps toward making it a more prominent aspect of my life. I’ve begun jettisoning my possessions, thereby hacking away at the literal and figurative clutter. I’ll be moving bookshelves and my writing desk around, making a better, more efficient workspace. I’ll be (hopefully) doing some freelance editing, after placing ads in a couple of writing magazines. And I’ll be submitting far more often, and to places that actually pay. I might even dip a toe into copywriting. I’m wanting the work I do to be meaningful, and to more be more closely aligned with my talents and abilities and desires. One of the main things that got me to finally earn my degree over two decades ago was the assurance I’d never have to work in food service ever again. I’ve spent more years cooking after earning my degree than I did before doing so. I’ve grown weary of, as my dad would say, using my back instead of my brains to earn a living. I’m ready to make a change.