I interviewed for a job I don't want at a company I desperately want to work for.

I want to work part-time to avoid the feeling of handing my life over to an institution, even if that institution's aim is to improve quality of life. This job is full-time and, as the woman said, the repetitious nature of the work "could not be stressed enough."

Good point. I also want to work part-time because I'm applying for positions far beneath my skill level. I'm applying for this kind of work for the benefits attached to it. I still want control over my schedule and the majority of my daytime.

Besides, she said, "You seem like a creative person. How are you going to stand doing this?"

That was an odd question. I was struck by how she found me out. I mean, my resume is loaded with positively boring stuff and I dressed as conservatively as is possible for me, which, to me, is pretty convincing.

Was it the earrings?

The irregular format of the resume?

Then I realized that I didn't look like a librarian or copyeditor. You know the type. As conservative-looking as I can get, I didn't look like either one of the women interviewing me.(The wild curly hair alone belies a sit-still personality.) But they have the floral print dress. Gold necklace. Straight, shoulder-length hair. Hair band. People who could spend their whole lives at the same desk, dreaming of simplicities I willingly take for granted or ignore completely.

Her question was apt. How would I tolerate it? That's what I hated about my last job and why, after awhile, I stopped working and started barely showing up.

The thing is, I don't really see myself as particularly creative. Much of my creative efforts seem to result from stress, usually performing triage after a long bout of procrastination.... I know it's not true. If I think a little more, a handful of things I've created come to mind. And, there's the ongoing struggle to find the courage to feel free enough to create or be as diverse as my imagination. So yes. Strange to hold onto that dissonant self-concept.

Anyway, the rest of the interview was rescheduled because the person who makes the hiring decision was called away for an emergency. But while waiting for her, I spent about 45 minutes gazing out the window across Lake Union and thinking about the ramifications of working full-time. I have a few more days to think about it now.

Maybe I should do it, if the offer is made.

But I LOVE working from home. Witness: Today, noon, I'm sitting here doing this.

(Pam's advice: Make them want you and then negotiate the number of hours.)

The way things are now, I'm hardly planning for the long-term. The freelance business is moving, but at the beginning of each month I still don't know how that month's budget will be met; I can only think about one month at time. And I put off the important tasks for immediate comforts. There is always a ride to bike and hills to hike, or trips to take.

I feel like I'm drowning in uncertainty.

And hiding in safe, oblique places.

Like editing instead of writing. Studying instead of talking.

Being the reclusive copyeditor and not the policymaker.

After recent conversations with Maureen, who is attacking the writing route, taking classes and workshops, writing every day, and talking to other writers, I realized writing as a vocation is not something I want to pursue now. Reading Blunt's record confirms it. Sometimes I toy with the idea of trying to write a story or poems, but I see that Blunt's and Maureen's approaches to the vocation are correct, if you're going to do it.

(I also notice I'm intimidated by their skills and tenacity. I can't imagine myself being so tenacious, committing to the endeavor. That's where the struggle sits, square in the throat and clamped by certain failure. Failure guarantees inactivity, safety: boredom.)

My route is already picked, and it requires no less commitment: I have to see if I like being the researcher and clinician.