Why I decided to quit my job to travel and write and be fun. Part One.

I have a writer friend named Richard who would call me at the office every once in a while. I met Richard at an event I worked when I first started at the magazine, and we clicked instantly over our mutual admiration of the written word, red wine and witty banter. At our first meeting, I told Richard I also wanted to be a writer.

Since we spoke so infrequently, our conversations would generally follow the same course: He would ask me how I was doing (busy and stressed) and how my job was treating me (it’s killing me) and if I had been writing lately (no, too busy and stressed and my job is killing me). And then he would ask me, “Well then, when are you quitting your job and getting the hell out of there so you can write?”

“Soon,” I’d tell him, “Very soon.”

“No one ever goes to the grave wishing he worked more,” he’d say.

“I know, I know.”

By the end of the conversation, I would reassure him: I was on my way out. I was going to leave my job. I was going to start pursuing my passion and begin writing. Don’t worry about me. I've got it all figured out.

Years would pass. We would have that conversation many, many times.

Sometimes, Richard’s number would come up on my caller id, and I wouldn’t pick up because I didn’t want to tell him that I was still doing the same old thing and not writing like I told him I would. I am sure that he just wanted to say hello and didn’t care all that much how I was spending my time. But his calls were a reminder that I cared—a lot.