Why I Left Corporate America and Chose an RV Life

ROBIN’S STORY

Hello Fellow Creative Travelers,

Have you ever thought of leaving your corporate job to live a more creative life? It’s possible…in an RV.

My name is Robin and I am the real person behind Creativity RV. I live full-time in my RV, writing books and blogs and painting watercolors and inspirational cards, all while mobile. I am writing this to you, leaned back in my Class-C lounge chair, using my TV as a monitor. There are pine trees bending gently in the breeze just outside the window and a jagged line of Rocky Mountains gleam just beyond in the changing, grapefruit light. An impossibly blue bird keeps flitting past my window, beckoning me outside; but for now, I want to talk to you about why I chose the RV Life.

I am not a camper. In fact, for most of my life, I was a nesting, indoor, dork. I grew up in Colorado, but didn’t go hiking or skiing or rock climbing. Oh no, I wanted to stay in the warmth and safety of the house, curled up in an afghan with an enjoyable book and a soothing fire. My adventures were found inside the deep, ever-changing oceans of words that lapped up against the corners of my books and sloshed over into my life, leaving their briny scent always on my skin. I wanted to dive in – I wanted to swim in words. I wanted to be a writer.

I got my bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing, became an Editor, Freelance Writer and Literary Agent, trying to make ends meet while working nights and weekends on my own books. As an agent, I saw dozens of wonderful books maneuver through the gauntlet of traditional publishing, only to have their precious darlings killed in the end. If they were one of the lucky few who made it out to the other side, they more often than not watched their books moulder in the remainder piles. Back to their day-jobs they went, trudging home to try to get down 2,000 words, see their dream dwindle and their rejection letters pile high.

I started to believe that creative dreams weren’t made of farie-dust – they were made of tears, callouses and despair. But I loved the dream all the same, even as the strings holding me to it peeled into lint in my hands. A baffling puzzle constantly loomed in my mind, just as it does for most creative people:

how could I sharpen my craft if I had to work a day job to pay the bills? 

Meanwhile, my family and friends were buying houses and going on trips, insulated safely within the confines of their steady, corporate jobs. They seemed, well, happier than me. They seemed more content with their choices. So, you guessed it: I sold out. I traded in my creative dreams for a regular paycheck and the promise of a 401K.

Like most creative people who join the corporate world, I convinced myself it was only for a year. Two tops. Then I would have enough money saved-up to write and paint full-time and create something great! But the inevitable happened, I looked over the edge of my cubical and saw that twenty years had passed. Sure, I tried to find a way. I owned four businesses, selling each one hoping to buy myself time to create. I’d sell a story, or some paintings, but life inevitably happened, the money ran out and back I’d trot to another job or business designed to help me escape again.

Finally, I ended up with a stressful but lucrative job that put me on the American Treadmill: 1) Make money, 2) Spend money, 3) Hope someday to retire.

When I bought a condo in a trendy neighborhood in Seattle my boss couldn’t have been more pleased. He said, “congratulations! I love debt loyalty.” Debt loyalty? When I asked what that meant, he smiled and said, “now you’ll stay for thirty years.” My blood ran cold. Thirty years was the length of my pricey new mortgage. Is that what I had done? Shackled myself to a six-figure job so I could afford to live where my six-figure job was located? Yes, I had.

The more the truth festered the more I noticed a new friend skulking in the corners of my psyche; his name was Fuck This. He was like the troll that lives beneath the bridge, stabbing me in the ankle with a sharp stick anytime I tried to get past my unhappiness. “How many fuck-ups can they fit in this clown car?” he’d ask, glaring around the table of my Monday morning conference call. “Why don’t you just tell them off and go sit on a beach?”

(Quick note here: yes, I curse. I don’t know anyone in corporate America who doesn’t secretly mutter ‘fuck this’ to themselves on the regular. Keeping it real, people. So…fuck it.  I hope you’ll stick around and keep reading.)

I began to think of the whole corporate experience as some lavish but sad Kabuki theater and learned to play my part just fine. I kept my mouth shut when I saw problems; I smiled and got along. I developed a strange new vocabulary with phrases I never used before, like: “great idea, Bob. Was that your idea? Great fucking idea. I’m on board. Let me know how I can help,” all the while thinking about what my first drink would be at happy hour and how long Bob would last when everyone realized his idea was a dud. Why was he here anyway? Why were any of us?

At corporate functions, I had a three-word arsenal: “huh”, “wow”, and “right.”  Believe me — you can deliver these three words in so many different tones and inflections that it actually sounds like you care (try it, it’s fun). The less I cared, the more the boss just loved me, telling me I could be him someday. Hell, I could surpass him! I began to wonder: is that what I want? To make $800,00 a year but make all decisions based on the profit and not the humanity? To be rich outside but dead within? A choice had to be made. I wasn’t proud anymore; I was demoralized. If my thirteen-year-old self could see me now, she would kick my ass.

Then, one day, a coworker asked me to go to lunch. He plied me with tales of Seattle’s Best Burger, but on the way, said he wanted to stop by an Airstream dealer to check out a new model. I could feel my face curl up in disdain. “A trailer? You’re joking.” I checked my watch as my stomach growled. I wanted this dumb pit-stop to end so we could go chow-down. I couldn’t get across the lot fast enough, scowling at how long it took the sales-guy to find the keys, but once we climbed inside the first shiny, silver shell my heart burst open. A retro dinette was surrounded by huge windows framed with red curtains. There was a breeze blowing through and one private thought swirled in time: I could write here. I could paint. How much was this thing? The answer was stunning. It was one-fifth what I had just spent on my condo.

That was the beginning of my planning odyssey. For the next four years, I became obsessed with trailers, vans and RVs. I followed RV you-tubers like Nomadic Fanatic, Cheap RV LivingLess Junk More Money and Carolyn’s RV Life. The vision began to gel: it was possible to cut the chains and create more. It was possible — with an RV Life.

Okay, I’ll cut the B.S. here. I wasn’t really planning to take my dreams mobile. If I’m honest now, all that planning was just another escape from my corporate life — a blueprint designed for a life I was too scared to live. The fear of losing safety and a steady income trumped the fear I’d lose my dream. After all, the timing was wrong, wasn’t it? I was on the cusp of making real-money – ridiculous money, the kind of money that changes lives — when the worst happened. Like many people who finally make the move to a mobile adventure, it was an unwelcome catalyst that propelled my fantasy towards action.

Read more in the next, installment, “If you had two years to live, would you keep that job?”

To see the YouTube Video where I talk about this, click here!

In the meantime, thanks for visiting. Please, like, share and subscribe or visit me on any of my social media platforms.

Thank you for reading! And, let’s help other people discover everything the RV life offers by Sharing, Liking and Subscribing.

Be Happy. Create More. Set Yourself Free .

Robin

CreativityRV

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