This afternoon I walked into my manager’s office and told her that I was quitting.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about writing full-time,” I explained, “and I’ve decided to go for it. My last day is in two weeks.”
She had always been supportive of my dream to one day become a failed novelist, but wasn’t ready for that day to come quite so soon. She reeled back from the shock of my announcement.
“And since you’ve been such a great manager, I wanted you to have this,” I said, handing her a folded piece of paper.
She opened the paper and saw, as you probably expect by now, the words April Fools! written inside. Her shock inevitably turned to anger (“How could you do this to me?!”), followed by relief. We chatted for a few minutes about my writing, and then I returned to my desk.
Of course, I’m not sure who the fool was in this situation: her, for believing my charade so completely, or me, for not actually quitting. I mean, I like my job and all, but it takes up too much time. I’ll never be a failed novelist unless I finish my novel.
Hmm, maybe I’ll quit again tomorrow.
I did that, too, except it was in the sandwich line and I wasn't joking.
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