Two months ago, I was on the way home from the thrift store. I had just picked up a long maroon corduroy coat because I couldn’t be parted with it. On the way home, I began imagining the cuffs trimmed with velvet, black lace on the back. And in between thoughts of, “I didn’t need this coat to begin with!” and “Another project?” the little thought slipped into my mind… “Hey! I could sell that!”
Thus GaslightEmporium was born.
Two months later, I’ve just launched a second Etsy shop. With uncalled-for optimism, I’ve laid out money for over fifty items at local thrift stores, spent countless hours hand-stitching embellishments onto them while watching my favorite shows, paid $150 for a professional photography session, and launched a second Etsy shop.
This, on my busiest school year yet, the same year that my school opened to 6-8th grade as well as 9-12th. I’m so busy with my classes that at the beginning of the school year, in favor of preserving sanity, I canceled almost all of my fixed evening activities to free up that time for lesson prep.
Oh, yeah, and I’m still running that art business and going to conventions and selling it and all that.
I needed another Etsy shop like I needed a hole in my head. Why and wherefore? And shouldn’t I be investing that time in, you know, things for the kingdom of God, like, say, my local Awana club or something at church?
Why, in the name of common sense?
It’s not because I love embellishing clothing items (although I do). Or because I’ve turned my back on serving God (quite the contrary!). Or even because I couldn’t make ends meet.
It’s because I have books I want to write. Stories, that ooze out of me whether I want them to or not, that have been begging to be written for more than ten years. Stories that, if I want to let myself be as grand and pompous about it as I was in college, I feel “called” to write.
I know, opening another business seems somewhat counterproductive in that department. Now I’m sewing in those snatches of time that I could be writing.
But, you see, I had an epiphany several months back. I realized that the quantity of writing, the pacing I needed at this point, required larger blocks of time. There comes a moment when you step back after having written “in your spare time” for the last ten years, and you realize that you have frighteningly little to show for your efforts. In short, you realize that things have to change if you want to arrive at your longed-for destination.
And I decided what I wanted. I wanted my summers. And in that embellished maroon jacket, I saw a possible ticket to a summer off.
I’m a teacher, but that doesn’t automatically mean that I get summers off. My Christian school is in a small town and is itself very small. I get paid enough to live off during the school year, but not enough to cover my summers. For the last three summers, I’ve worked 40 plus hours a week at a local camp and conference center. I’ve been scrubbing toilets and hauling garbage to support my teaching habit.
When put that way, it sounds shockingly unfair. Either that, or I sound like I’m complaining. Really, neither is true. I work with fantastic folks at both school and camp, and I honestly don’t mind the work at all. Somebody’s got to do it, after all! Why not me?
I wouldn’t mind at all, if there weren’t other things I wanted– even needed– to do. If there weren’t stories shut up in my bones like fire, burning to get out. And, for the first two summers, I actually got some writing done after work. But I’m not getting any younger, and this summer most evenings I’d be too tired. Or just as soon as I hit a good writing rhythm, I’d realize that I really needed to go to bed if I wanted to survive to the weekend. I didn’t get much done. And it felt awful.
I don’t want to do it again. I want my summer this year. I want it to write.
I did the math. I know I’ve got to save at least $6000 if I want to have my summer free, which is an astronomical sum. I don’t think I ever saved that much at once even when I was paying graduate school bills. It’s utterly ridiculous. Ludicrous.
But dreams ARE ludicrous. And the people who achieve their dreams are ludicrous people who refuse to let the odds dictate their efforts.
So I dove in feet-first. I even have business cards.
Here’s to ludicrous dreams and my even more ludicrous self. Here’s to the chance at a summer to write.
Particularly, here’s to GaslightEmporium.