Anyone who's known me for more than the past five years knows that I've been planning to get out of teaching for a long time, so I can focus all my time and attention on my writing. Ideally, I had wanted to stop teaching four years ago after my daughter graduated, but for various reasons (most of them financial ones), I decided to keep teaching until I hit the thirty-year mark.
This year was my thirtieth year, so I'm leaving teaching to write, to ride, and to roam full time. I'll also read and paint a lot, too.
If you haven't yet visited my author website, please do. You can find it at tammymarshallauthor.wordpress.com if the following link doesn't work.
On that site, you can see my current books, synopses of books I'm writing and planning to release, a few of my columns, links to my two blogs, a page announcing my readings and appearances, some photos, and you can even contact me from the website.
While, financially, this still isn't the most opportune time for me to give up teaching, on a personal level, I've already waited far too long. All I've ever wanted to be was a writer. I can't keep putting my own dream on the back burner because, as we all know, life is far too short.
In the past few years, I've lost far too many wonderful people. Their deaths have been painful, painful reminders that while I may not be able to afford monetary luxuries by giving up my job, I REALLY can't afford to keep losing days that I could be spent writing. I want to honor their memories by dedicating every day to achieving more of my goals.
Amy Vojtech Beran was my best friend since college, and she was a huge supporter of my writing. She died almost three years ago from cancer. She was only 50. My second book is dedicated to her memory. I keep her photos on my desks to cheer me because her smile is lovely, but I so miss my friend. I leave a painted rock every time I visit her grave in Fremont.
Nate Metschke, the best band teacher ever, died at the age of 40. He and I were birthday buddies of a sort. His was September 11, and mine is September 13. His 40th and my 50th sucked, so we had made a promise to do something fun and memorable for his 41st and my 51st. He never made it that far. He died on the operating table trying to kick cancer's ass. A bright and shining light went out of my workdays after he died, and it's just never been the same.
Trever Erickson, the middle son of my boyfriend, Kim, died two years ago at age 32. He was a goofy, fun-loving, tortured soul whose PTSD got the best of him. There is a memorial in my front yard to him, and I think of him often and miss him dearly. Kim, his other two sons, Trever's wife Jet, I, and others are doing things to keep Trever's legacy going, but nothing can ever replace him.
Paul Filsinger, my beloved and amazing uncle, died last October from complications from covid. He was only 60, and he was the most gifted photographer ever. He gave me the photo that graces the cover of my second book, and I had so hoped to collaborate with him on future book covers. I miss everything about him, but I especially miss the joy he brought to my life with every visit.
Karen Filsinger Hahlbeck, my aunt and sister to Paul, died only days after Paul. She was a hoot and a half, and she loved to read. While she reached an older age, the way in which she died and the timing of it on the heels of her baby brother's death were a blows that still resonate.
Recently, I've lost two former students, and anytime I lose a former student, it's a giant punch in the gut for many reasons. Sadly, I've lost count of how many former students have died. I've taught for thirty years, so it's bound to happen, of course, but it's never okay. A few have died so tragically that I have nightmares. Sydney Loofe's death was the most horrific. She was such a sweet kid, and she deserved a long and wonderful life. May her killers rot in hell.
There are other losses that cut almost as deep as death.
Silvia Realpozo Sanchez, my dear friend from Mexico, got violently ill last fall, and her kidneys died. She had to cut short her college education and return to Mexico where she is on dialysis three times a week, and she's still very ill. I miss her greatly, and I worry all the time about her.
For many reasons, it's long overdue that I really focus on my writing as a full-time commitment instead of something I try to sneak in during weekends, over the summer, and on a few evenings. I need the continuity of a daily flow of writing if I'm ever really going to become the writer I want to be. Whether I ever achieve fame and fortune with my writing is completely secondary to my primary goal -- I simply want to be a writer. Every day. I want my career to be WRITER instead of teacher. I owe it to myself.
