It’s fascinating how the rules completely change once you announce you’re leaving a law firm to do something entirely unrelated. The Trojan walls between professionalism and humanity temporarily fall, and suddenly your superiors are regarding you with puzzled bemusement. Sure, there are those who deliver the verbal equivalent of a pat on the head with a condescending “Oh how cute, you’re going off to try and be a writer” tossed in. But the remainder approach with curiously delighted expressions, ready to relate to you on an entirely new plane.
Some will launch into tales of their own fearless youthful leaps, somehow glossing over the fact that they eventually chucked it all for corner offices and cushy salaries. Some will even confront you with tragically hopeful expressions, begging for vicarious details of your post-law plan. One partner, an impossibly kind man who wears a constant look of bewilderment, as if he woke up from a pleasant adolescent dream to find himself a partner at a law firm, burst into my office with a thrilled grin.
“So! I just heard the news! You’re, uh, really leaving to write a novel?”
“Yes. I’m definitely nervous, but I know this is what I want to do.”
“So you’re just up and quitting?”
“Um, yes.” I brace myself for skepticism or belittlement. Instead, he shoots me an enormous smile.
“I think it’s wonderful. Follow a dream. Do what you want to be doing. Wonderful.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that. It’ll be hard but worth it I think.”
“Yes, wonderful, great.”
He’s staring at the floor now, his eyes cloud over, he’s shifting back and forth on his feet. “You know, I had dreams, ambitions I wanted to follow, back when I was younger, before your time of course.” The smile is gone and a wistfulness creeps over his face. “There were so many things I wanted to do. You have all these hopes and aspirations, and then things just happen, pieces fall, you get a wife, three kids, a mortgage, college funds, retirement. Now I’ll never do any of them, it won’t ever happen, I know that.”
I stare at him, unsure whether to speak. What possible meaningful response can a 27-year-old give to this statement? He looks up again and meets my gaze, the cheerful expression quickly returns.
“But that’s life, you know! That’s the way it goes. And it goes fast. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. No regrets, none.” He states the last word with emphasis and glances hurriedly around my soon-to-be-former office, as if to make sure no one else overheard his nostalgic lapse.
“Well best of luck, you go out and write your book and get it published. And then be sure to send me a copy.” He gathers himself and glances out at the long hallway as if it’s filled with icy water, and the confines of my office warm and dry. Gingerly, he steps outside.
“Thank you. If it happens, I definitely will.”