This was the moment I knew I had to quit law to become a novelist

Why I gave up money, prestige, and power to embrace constant rejection

In March I left my trial lawyer job at an international law firm to work on my science fiction novel full-time.

I know these are the questions everyone wants answered: Why did I quit law? Why become a novelist? Why now? Those are hard questions to answer, and I’ve been wrestling with how to do it for months. 

I could write an entire novel based on myself, where the protagonist is an immigrant and the idea of her becoming a novelist is laughable. She grows up in a family and community where people who pursue art as a full-time career are viewed as too dumb to get “real” jobs. Where financial insecurity is the inescapable cloudy film through which everyone sees their life.

The protagonist’s glass shard (motivation) is a deeply-held belief that a person with a creative career is destined for a life cast in shame. A life where she lives paycheck to paycheck, and suffers the same indignities her parents suffered, which they bore so she could avoid that painful kind of existence. Where she spits on their sacrifice by choosing to be poor.

The first act of the story will culminate in her joining a prestigious law firm and achieving everything she was chasing her whole life: financial security, status, and personal power. The second act begins with her realizing that the cost to keep those things isn’t worth paying for the next 30 years.

Perhaps I’ll write that story someday. But not today. Today I give you a story of a smaller moment—the actual, final impetus for me leaving my prestigious, well-paid, coveted job in BigLaw.

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I have to tell you—it’s decidedly unromantic. I wasn’t wandering through a park one day and the sun hit me just right and I thought: “it’s time.” I didn’t have an epic Eat Pray Love adventure where I bore down deep into my soul in the midst of a meditative yoga session.

No, I had this epiphany while doing something quite mundane—reading an article on the internet.

I found wisdom in an unlikely place.

The article is by Mark Manson. Heard of him? He wrote that popular book The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F***. I have mixed feelings about that book. While entertaining, I thought the advice had some inconsistencies. This article he wrote, however, was life-changing for me. Literally.

In it, Manson asks a question (it’s quite graphic): “What’s your favorite flavor of shit sandwich and does it come with an olive?” He explains:

Everything involves sacrifice. Everything includes some sort of cost. Nothing is pleasurable or uplifting all of the time. So, the question becomes: what struggle or sacrifice are you willing to tolerate? Ultimately, what determines our ability to stick with something we care about is our ability to handle the rough patches and ride out the inevitable rotten days.

If you want to be a brilliant tech entrepreneur, but you can’t handle failure then you’re not going to make it far. If you want to be a professional artist, but you aren’t willing to see your work rejected hundreds, if not thousands of times, then you’re done before you start. If you want to be a hotshot court lawyer, but can’t stand the 80-hour workweeks, then I’ve got bad news for you.

Ultimately, he argues, “your favorite shit sandwich is your competitive advantage. By definition, anything that you’re willing to do (that you enjoy doing) that most people are not willing to do gives you a huge leg-up.”

Manson’s article put forth the question: what painful work was I willing, even yearning, to do over and over and over again?

This question led me to a red pill or blue pill kind of moment, but without Lawrence Fishburne there to warn me I was taking a fateful step—I was entering the matrix without realizing I had chosen it.

Taking the red pill revealed a set of truths I could not unsee.

And what I saw was a nanosecond slideshow of all the sacrifice required to leave law practice, followed by the clear, stark realization: I’d pay that cost gladly if I got to write creatively every day.

I’d accept public derision for my bad writing. I’d accept near-constant rejection. I’d accept the low odds of ever getting paid a living wage. I’d accept the likelihood that nothing I wrote would ever be impactful, published, or paid for.

I’d give up on my son seeing me as a woman who wore a suit to work. On having a woman role model in his life that appeared on tv to discuss a plastic waste lawsuit. Who commanded a large salary and who derived authority from that in her household—purchasing things that her husband would otherwise decline to invest in.

I’d give up the ability to write congratulatory posts about myself on LinkedIn, for appearing on various lawyer achievement lists. My parents wouldn’t be able to stand as tall at Bangladeshi community functions back home in Ohio; they couldn’t pridefully share anecdotes about my latest legal victories. Instead, I’d be the secret butt of jokes at parties, the aunties furtively whispering that I’ve lost my way. The fathers no longer telling their daughters to see my example and follow my path.

I’d give up the special power I’d had to spend generously on my parents and extended family. If I earned the money, I could supplement my parents’ retirement if I wanted to. It would be harder to spend my husband’s money. (Though I know Tom’s earnings are mine too and he is extremely generous about it, I would still feel less free than when I was bringing in the checks.)

I’d give up the personal power of being a lawyer. I could no longer casually drop the fact that I’m a lawyer in situations where I felt powerless—like to make airline service reps return my calls, or motivate the utilities people to fix our gas line timely. I couldn’t tell judgey strangers I met at cocktail parties that I was a lawyer and raise my chin at their appraising glances.

I am a short brown woman who is constantly underestimated. I wear the earned pedigree of my lawyer identity on my sleeve more often than I’d like to admit.

I’d give up all these things. I’d accept all these things, if I could write.

Once I knew these truths, I could not un-know them. I could not unlearn the fact that I was willing to worship at the altar of writing, even if it meant that I would lose everything that I had suffered for, had cried over and strived for, for over a decade of my life. I loved writing so much, I was willing to fail, to fade into obscurity, to be a nothing and a nobody and a fool.

Brass tacks: being a writer is better for my family.

My answer to Manson’s question is this: I would relish the drudgery of a creative writing career. And, I do not relish the drudgery of a legal career.

So I acted on this new awareness and made a plan to quit my job. My husband was on board (he is a saint), but he also knew that me becoming a writer would allow us to have a less stressful life overall. Being a high-powered attorney was very destabilizing for our family because of the long, unpredictable hours, the pressure to be constantly available, and the necessity to prioritize client work over all things, even vacations, health, and mental wellness.

By becoming a writer I could have working hours that made space for necessary life duties like managing our bills, getting our car registered, and doing the groceries. Last year our household was in constant disarray. We neglected, for example, to pay our property taxes on time. (There was a huge penalty.)

And, self-employment is better for parenting. I can take care of my son when daycare unexpectedly closes for Juneteenth, or he gets sick, or someone needs to take him to the doctor in the middle of the day. 

I’m at a stage in my life where I can stomach the financial risk of a creative career.

I would be disingenuous if I didn’t mention the financial backdrop of my career pivot. The ability to quit my law job and focus on novel-writing full time has a lot to do with where my family is in terms of living with one income. We can do it now for a number of reasons. One is that I got paid outrageous sums when I was a BigLaw attorney. I was able to build up savings and earmark a chunk of that to pay for my son’s daycare costs for the next two years. That gives me incredible comfort. I don’t have to shoulder the guilt of not bringing in an income and paying someone else to take care of my child with money I didn’t earn. My husband also has a well-paying tech job and we can get along fine on that for a couple years while I get my bearings as a writer.

Did I make the right choice?

My gut was right on the money. I relish the hard work of getting better at writing. I look forward to Mondays. I love my family, but on Fridays I have to gird myself for the time I will spend away from my keyboard writing. The Sunday scaries have now become the Friday scaries. The weekend is harder work for me. I promise I love being a mom and wife and friend, but it’s just a different kind of joy.

I hope my story inspires you to find your truth and follow your intuition.

Write on,

Noor

PS: If this post resonated with you, please share it with others. I love when my words have impact.