ambition tender_square is the leash that tugs her forward, feet scrambling with the yank of demand. everyone asks about her last day—"what do you plan to do?" and "what have you lined up?"—and after three times returning, she knows she cannot come back to this place. this is the end of the line. she will not work with these faces again. dream (?) job opportunities to edit cross her path and she refuses them, partially out of believing she isn't qualified enough, partially because she worries it's too much responsibility. then, she imagines how impressive the titles and institutions would be, and envisions herself in those environs. yes, this is the kind of work that people would envy, she thinks. but is that a good enough reason to apply to something she isn't even sure is right for her? forty hours plus per week would be the end of her writing; buh-bye. the prestige-seeker within asks, isn't it better to step away from creativity before you fail, to seek security? "this is my calling," her husband said to her, "and i figure i have to answer to that as best as i can." her eyes became a broken dam at the statement; she had been betraying herself. if this was to be her lifework, her own writing, why wasn't she betting on what was within? she used the excuse that her vocation didn't bring money. but what was wrong with an unimpressive position that allowed her the space to try? why was it that the older she turned, the more acute the judgment of others felt for not following a traditional path? why should she want to play it safe anyway? 221018 what's it to you? who go blather from