You’ve heard of the sandwich generation. An entire generation (and generations to come) squeezed between taking care of aging parents and their own children. Full loads on both sides of running their own lives, including (usually) working full time jobs. They’re sandwiched between multiple slices of life, pressing down on them from every direction. A triple decker life sandwich, or more.
If I had to give the occupation of writing a moniker, it would be the sandwich occupation. Let’s face it, this occupation (for most) does not afford us a life of luxury. And, even more realistically, often times, does not even pay the bills. Many aspiring writers have yet to make any money at all. But the call is still there, the drive, the passion. So we write. We don’t do it because we expect it to provide that life of riches, allowing us to live in huge houses and drive different fancy cars every day of the week. We do it because we love it. We do it because we can’t not do it. To not do it, would be like not breathing. Even though we don’t get paid to do that either, it must be done. So, we continue to slog to our “paying jobs,” squeezing in whatever precious time we can to devote to our true calling. Sandwiched in between all those other sandwich generation things, but adding one more layer, squeezing in the thing that calls to us most. Writing.
So, to all my fellow slices of ham, Tofurky, tomato, lettuce…may the thing calling to you like lungs call for air someday be the slice of life that pays your bills.
Traci Ison Schafer
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