Blog 108 - Wishful Thinking

Blog 108 - Wishful Thinking

February 2026

I’m sitting at the control desk on my break, so I thought I'd share a question that’s become as familiar to me as the hum of the security camera monitors: “Why did I sign up for this?" - What do you do when you realise the job you are in no longer cuts it? Don't get me wrong here, I am grateful that in this day and age I actually have a job, but it's just not doing anything for me anymore. What I truly want is to be a full-time writer, true, my job as Night Security at a theme park allows me to indulge in the odd dabble during my breaks, by allowing me to write this blog for instance. But, and it's a big But, it only scratches the itch.

There is no time for actually writing, building worlds and exploring characters. What I really need is an agent, someone who can look at my work and see the potential, push it into the hands of those illusive people who can say "Yes, this is what we want, here's some money, now go and write, write till your fingers bleed, you creative genius!" - Ha, fat chance...However, perhaps I need to re-evaluate things.

Let's be honest for a second; I’m a night watchman at a theme park; it's a respectable gig in a world where “unemployed” still carries a stigma. I’m grateful—thankful, even—that I have a steady pay-check, that the occasional scream from the haunted house is more likely to be caused by the fact that someone has left the audio on than anything terrifying and that on my break I get to sit here and ruminate with you guys. And yet, somewhere between the popcorn scented breezes and the occasional late night jogger who thinks the park is a good place to rehearse his cardio, a quieter, more stubborn itch has taken hold of me: the itch of a full time writer.

You see, this job is a perfect incubator for short bursts of creativity. The downtime between patrolling is when I sneak a notebook out of my pocket, stare at the endless sea of night sky, and let a sentence or two slip onto the page. That’s why this blog exists—the park’s walls have given me a little sanctuary to pour out some rambling thoughts, to test the waters, to make sure words still feel like home. It’s a pleasant diversion, a chance to remind myself that there’s still a voice inside that wants to be heard. But it’s also a reminder of the gulf between what I’m doing now and what I’m dreaming of doing forever.

The problem isn’t that I’m lazy or that I don’t love storytelling. It’s that the world of night security is a world of finite blocks of time, of watchful eyes and occasional coffee breaks, and it doesn’t leave room for the sprawling, messy process of building a world, or fleshing out a protagonist. Writing a novel isn’t a sprint; it’s a marathon that requires miles of solitude, a schedule that can stretch from sunrise to well past the witching hour, and most of all, a belief that someone out there will see the value in the story you’ve been coaxing out of the shadows.

So, what do you do when you realize your day (or night) job no longer cuts it? Do you toss the badge, slam the gate, and run off into the literary sunset? Or do you stay put and hope that the inspiration will eventually bloom in the fluorescent glare of the security office? The answer, I think, is a bit of both, wrapped up in a healthy dose of pragmatic optimism and a sprinkling of stubborn humour.

First, I remind myself that I’m not the only one who has stood at this crossroads. There are countless stories—both fictional and real—of people who’ve gone from serving popcorn to serving prose. They didn’t abandon their responsibilities; they simply re engineered the way they approached them. A ten minute lull between rounds is enough to scribble a paragraph, to flesh out a character’s motive, to map a scene in my mind. Those tiny increments add up. Think of it as a writer’s intermittent fasting: you don’t have to chow down on a whole chapter in one sitting; you just need to keep the creative metabolism humming.

Second, I’m learning to treat the theme park itself as a source material goldmine. The squeal of a coaster chain, the ghostly laughter from the haunted house, the way the lights flicker over a deserted midway—these are the textures that breathe life into any story. By observing, noting, and sometimes even exaggerating these details, I’m subtly building a reservoir of sensory ammunition. When the time comes to sit down for a full time writing session, I’ll have a toolbox full of authentic, lived in moments that can be repurposed into any genre I choose. It’s a bit like mining; you’re not striking gold with every swing, but each strike brings you a little closer.

That brings me to the elephant in the room that keeps flapping its ears whenever I think about going “full time writer”: the agent. In the romanticized world of literary success, an agent is the magical gatekeeper who looks at a manuscript, nods approvingly, and whispers “Yes, we’ll get you a deal, and your fingers will bleed with creative genius.” In reality, an agent is a busy, human being with a stack of submissions taller than the Eiffel Tower and a budget for caffeine that rivals a small coffee shop. My imagination often paints a picture of a sleek, suit clad individual perched behind a mahogany desk, ready to champion my work. The truth, however, is that agents are looking for something that stands out, something that fits the market they serve, and something that they believe they can sell.

I can’t magically conjure an agent, and I certainly can’t force my manuscript into the hands of the “illusive people” who will sign the check. What I can do, though, is inch closer to that possibility. I’m polishing my short stories, submitting to literary magazines, and collecting those modest rejections that, paradoxically, feel like tiny victories because they prove I’m in the game. I’m learning the art of the query letter, not as a grand proclamation but as an honest conversation. Each “thank you for your time” email is a building block, a step toward the day when an agent might actually say, “I want to talk about your novel.” Until then, I’m content to keep my expectations realistic, my humour intact, and my keyboard always within reach.

There’s also a comforting thought that perhaps my current job isn’t a stumbling block but a stepping stone. Night security at a theme park might sound like an odd backdrop for a writer’s life, but it provides a unique perspective that many aspiring authors lack. The quiet watches, the occasional oddball visitor, the sense that I’m safeguarding a place where joy is manufactured—these are experiences that can be woven into stories that feel genuine and fresh. The very fact that I’m grateful for a job, even if it “doesn’t do anything for me” creatively, is a reminder that I’m already ahead of the curve. Many writers are juggling a full time gig they despise, living on the edge of burnout. I’m at least on a path where the job at least doesn’t drain the joy from my day.

Ultimately, the solution isn’t a single bold leap; it’s a series of small, deliberate steps. I’ll keep writing during breaks, keep feeding my manuscript with the snippets of life that swirl around me, and keep sending my work out into the world. I’ll stay open to the possibility that an agent might appear—not in a flash of cinematic glory, but perhaps in a cramped coffee shop where a stranger picks up my self published novella and says, “This is exactly what my client wants.” When that happens, I’ll be ready.

So, when the night shifts blur and the rides sigh into silence, I’ll sit in the control room, stare up at the constellation of stary lights, and remind myself that the story isn’t over yet. The “big but” is simply a prompt, a punctuation mark in the narrative of my own life. I’ll keep writing, keep dreaming, and keep believing that one day the word “full time” will stop being a fantasy and become a fact, not because I abandoned my badge, but because I learned to stitch the two worlds together—security and imagination—into something that feels, at last, like home. And if the agent finally calls, I’ll answer with a grin, a notebook full of ideas, and a heart that still hears the distant echo of a roller coaster’s click clack, reminding me that even the wildest rides start with a single, steady track.