My mother used to joke that I’d graduate college with a MRS instead of a BFA. Meaning, instead of walking across the stage at graduation sporting a double gold-braided Magna Cum Laude cord, I’d duck out of university prematurely for a man with an engagement ring. She was wrong — kind of: While I did graduate with the Magna Cum Laude title and a BFA in creative writing, I also departed as a long-term girlfriend to a guy I met at school. And no, I didn’t throw away all my aspirations for him… but I did make some adjustments.
As many great tales often start, I followed a man across the country and became a bartender after college. My boyfriend ended up getting a gig as a news reporter, so just days after graduation, we moved from Orange County, California, to Panama City Beach, Florida.
I want you to Google “Panama City Beach, Florida.” Really stare at it on the map. PCB is a small city on the southeast edge of the Bible Belt — and I use the word “city” generously, because it took me only one day after my cross-country move to realize that the main career paths people pursue in the appropriately nicknamed “Redneck Riviera” were military soldier, cop, or service industry worker.
So, on my second day in PCB, I did what any distressed, unemployed 22-year-old would do: I went to a bar.
I was about four vodka sodas deep when the manager of the joint — the Coyote Ugly Saloon in PCB — offered me a job. I know what you’re thinking: Yes, that Coyote Ugly. I didn’t have any prior bartending experience, but similarly to Lil in the 2000s blockbuster that inspired the creation of this establishment, the manager said it didn’t matter. They needed girls, specifically, and I guess my jovial demeanor was enough attestation to deem me easily trainable. I started bartending two weeks later.
Maybe I could’ve started my memoir instead, pitched a query to Hachette, and gotten the book deal I dreamt of since I was 15. Maybe I could’ve applied to remote positions in the editorial space or started a Substack. But the thing was, I was 22. I had nearly $100,000 in student loan debt that was locked and loaded, set to annihilate my credit score in less than six months if I didn’t pay up. I barely had savings and next to no help from my parents.
In this day and age, I notice that many writers come from money — at least, enough money that they can focus on writing (a notoriously low-paying profession) full-time. No shade to them, but me? I’m not one of those fortunate artists. This reality consumed me as I put my dream of becoming an author on pause in pursuit of perfecting the art of the vodka cran.
The despair dissipated when the bar money started rolling in. It wasn’t just bar money, either — it was Coyote money. I worked close to 50-hour weeks at that damn saloon, oftentimes more. Sometimes, I’d clock in before the sun set, and I would always clock out after it rose the next day. While I didn’t have any time to write, the pay made my perennial sore throat worthwhile. (For those not in the loop: We service industry folks seem to get sick constantly.) Less than a year into the job, I’d saved up enough to make a one-time, $35,000 payment into my Mohela account, and that was on top of me supercharging my monthly loan payments. Thanks to bartending, I don’t technically have student debt anymore. Now, I pay off my remaining student loans on a monthly basis and keep a chunk of change in my HYSA for emergencies. If I died tomorrow, the remainder of my loans could be paid off entirely and I’d have enough money left over to pass along to my family.
People ask me all the time if I regret my decision to put my career on hold to support the career of a man. The answer isn’t so cut and dry, and the ending isn’t necessarily happy, either.
I wouldn’t say it’s sad, though.
Nine months ago, I retired a Coyote and moved to San Diego with my boyfriend (yes, the same one). Here, my rent more than doubled, as did most of my other bills. But, I had set aside enough of my tip money from bartending that I didn’t need a full-time job — I could find a part-time bartending gig out here, just enough to afford to exist, and use my newfound free time to (finally) focus on my writing. I was rich in the sense that a self-made 24-year-old was — I would have never allowed myself to pursue writing if it wasn’t for the financial freedom I achieved through Coyote Ugly.
And so, I found another job. My twice-a-week shift at a nightclub in the Gaslamp Quarter paid for exactly everything I needed. I started reading again, which turned into writing, which turned into many editorial pitches being either shot down or ignored. With each rejection (and trust me, there have been a lot of rejections), I still looked forward to my bartending job every weekend. Maybe a magazine didn’t like what I had to say that time around, but at least I knew I made a mean margarita.
However, life is debilitating sometimes. Four days after I began writing this piece, I got laid off from my bartending job here in San Diego. I’m not taking it well. It was the perfect gig — I had enough time to write and I made enough money to afford to live. I’m terrified that my savings will start to dwindle, and I’m even more terrified I won’t find another job that’ll offer me the flexibility to write, pitch, rinse, and repeat.
I’m holding out hope that I’ll find one, though — in fact, I know I will, because I’m hungry enough to ensure it happens. And, while things may be difficult for a while, you’re reading this little number I wrote right now, aren’t you?
Sure, I might not be using my college degree in the traditional sense, but I’m not upset that I went to college because I know my degree will benefit me in the long run, even if my life took route I didn’t expect. If I were to give another struggling artist some advice, especially those just now graduating college: Don’t quit your dreams. But also — and I say with utmost importance — don’t quit your day job, at least not yet. Lastly, and most importantly, don’t be ashamed if you have a day job. It might just be exactly what you need to build the financial foundation to follow those dreams.