2 Questions Every Girl is Asking Herself

Chapter 50

I'm surprised to find that living the dream gets hazardously lonely. Somehow I didn't see it coming. I'd always imagined writing all day, facing an emerald expanse of grass and cherry trees while I amuse myself with word play would be as idyllic as life gets. While my coworkers slave away in their glass towers of steel gray, bound in their stiff collars, who are, no doubt, mourning their life. When veteran writers warned me against the loneliness of the journey, I'd regarded that with an arched eye-brow, like "Pfff... Hello? Do you see who are you talking to here? I'm an Introvert. If anybody knows how to do lonely, it's us Da Introverts."

But in actuality, several months into the writing journey, I was astonished to discover my social life was crashing into the Great White Void – vanishing completely. Suddenly my social outings became infrequent, my phone stops ringing, my text messages stop coming, my Facebook Likes dwindles (gasp), for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, I don't speak to anyone (well, there's no one to speak to, unless it is to buy coffee), I began to believe maybe it is time to cancel my cell phone plan.

This I-can't-put-my-finger-on-it kind of loneliness had me scratching my head for many months. Have I suddenly become unpopular? Have I ceased to be relevant? Am I totally uncool now? Do people not like me anymore? Oh my gosh, I'm not sure I want to know the truth.

Moreover, as I discover at parties, I also feel estranged from my friends. I couldn't distinguish which was which at first. Is it because I'm so lonely'ed out Monday to Friday, the occasional hangouts with friends felt especially scarce? Or is it merely because I'm no longer doing the job, so we have less in common?

Even though I knew nothing about it at the time, but what I was feeling is a sentiment that jolts many of the newly self-employed, as I've come to learn – the loss of the built-in community that inevitably disappears with the job. As human beings, we have a basic need for connection. Your family and your friends only share aspects of your life. They can connect with you on a level where they have experience, but your co-workers, they have a different function, they share with you, your work experience. That's 40 hours a week. A very substantial amount. Your coworkers may not be your bestest of friends, with whom you share the deepest secrets of your souls, but they're like the toast that holds the turkey sandwich together – not the most prominent thing you'd notice about your lunch, but definitely weird without. And now as I sit through long stretches of silence, with nobody to talk to or report to or share my work with, I feel... weird. My Dad feared I might actually become weird.

Growing up, there's always been a natural progression of community. First you're a kid in elementary school, then teenager in high school, then student in university, then employee at your first job. At every stage, you're surrounded by a build-in community of people who are doing the same thing you are. You play mud with the other kids, study Shakespeare with the other teenagers, suffer through Calculus with the other students, and finally confidently stride into your first work meeting, with your peers. At the end of every stage you lose some old friends, not so much out of dislike, but out of lack of relevance. But after each stage of loss, before you have a chance to notice it, it is immediately replaced by a new community, from the new school, or from the new job. But if you step out of this comforting cycle of continuity and community, what then? You're in social limbo.

I say this because I couldn't make sense of this great gaping hole I'd often feel when I'm eating lunch. By myself. Yet again. They say when you break up with someone, there's a "he-shaped void" in your heart, and all you want to do is fill it up with "him". The same thing happens when you break up with your career of 8 years, there's a great gaping hole of "they-shaped void". And I want to fill it up with I don't know what.

Around this time, I approached a poet/mentor for some writing tips. He said, like he was sharing an important piece of advice, "What kept me going was the community."

I stared at him a good while, thinking, 'Really, is this the best advice you've got?' Still, I took his advice.

I thought finding my community would be fairly easy, as my gym buddy, Thomas, the entrepreneur, would often share with me on the treadmill, the latest news from his start-up community, his mentors, his incubators, his biking tours, his coffee date with so-and-so at the start-up hub, etc, etc...

At this, my beet-red face is stricken green with envy – I want a community like that! I want to feel all warm and fuzzy and snuggle up with writers and a cup of coffee and talk about books and writing, and writer's blocks at a shared office space! How come I never get to hang out with anybody?

So, I got busy with it, and signed up for all kinds of writing related meetups, web forums, literary festivals. I sought-out writers who liked to blog or tweet or Facebook, and blogged or tweeted or Facebooked them. On the rare occasion I encounter writers at house parties, or friends of writers at house parties, I put on my most friendly smiles – to no noticeable effect. On the even rarer occasion, one of them will agree to meet with me for coffee, I end up being pitched to buy something. I approached established writers and non-established writers, most of whom don't live in Vancouver. The few who do, their response is always polite and the same – I'm not interested in hanging out with you. For months I couldn't find a steady group of writers to just be with, or even one person, like a study buddy, to write with. I just couldn't find him/her.

During this time, as part of my effort to engage with the community, I began to attend readings at the library. Vincent Lam was on tour for his new novel, The Headmaster's Wager. He made a stop at the Vancouver library, in the Alice MacKay room. Ordinarily, readings held in this room are lacklustre events featuring skilled writing on obscure topics. But tonight was different. The room was all decked out for television. They rolled out all the folding chairs, turned up the big lights. Cameras were rolling. When I got there, I could only find a seat in the back row. The people who came after had to stand alongside the wall. When Vincent Lam stepped up to podium in his oval glasses, and began in this cool soothing reading voice, I felt like all the lights around me had gone dim. And all I could see was this "metisse girl in a light-blue dress" by the mah jong table.

I would happily go on listening to him tell the story of this exquisite woman all evening. But then, abruptly, he stopped. The teaser was over. I squirmed in my seat until the event was almost over, then I slipped out the back door, and ran upstairs to search for the book in the library catalogue. The search result spat back a number that verily hurts my eyes to witness - 95 holds! If I waited in line, I'd probably get my hands on it next year!

Just then, my phone rang.

It's Kat. "Da mimi, have you gotten your visa yet? I'm going to quit my job soon. You should go get the visa sorted ASAP since you don't have to work."

If I had any hesitations about moving to London to be a writer, I had them no longer. The manuscript is now finished. The time had come for me to go. I don't see how I was going to get better by staying in a vacuum. I'd go languid with stagnation. Of course London is an expensive city, but I never doubted my ability to find work.

So on a sunny Wednesday, I went to the UK visa office, got my photos taken, fingerprints scanned, application forms stamped. The lady at the office instructed me to collect all the supporting documents, bank statements, and courier everything to New York in 10 business days. I paid $300 in visa processing fees and that was it. It was all surprisingly easy. Within a week and half, my passport was couriered back to me with the shiny new visa glued inside. The visa is good for two years. I picked a departure date 3 months from now. Enough time to secure a job.