Nothing makes me so anxious to stop being a lawyer as when I read good writing. When I am transported into another place in my mind by the author's words, and my heart is wrenched by both the story and the language used to tell it, I feel an emotional pull like no other. Like I need to run from the room and turn in my resignation because the only thing that matters are the stories I am not telling.
It's a strange urge because it also presupposes that I have stories in me, and the talent to tell them, that might elicit that same reaction in others. This supposition is directly at odds with the overwhelming fear that also lives inside me and whispers in my ear near constantly that I am banal writer at best and laughably pathetic at worst.
Inevitably, the reverie of a good story is shattered by a work email buzzing on my phone. That come down is always harsh, sending my stomach to my toes and causing my panic to rise. Bringing me right back to my reality of court deadlines, the dogmatic precision of pre-ordained writing structure, and the tedium of life in six minute billable increments.
But no matter how brief the mental escape may be, it provides a vision of what life could be and inspiration to not resign myself to what is.