I feel so close to my next job I can touch it, almost. Maybe my fingertips are still reaching only air, but in my mind I know where they're going to land, mostly.

Years ago, gainfully employed, I was ready to make a move but to where I had no idea. A former colleague who'd left the media business to pursue a new career in psychology suggested I visualize my dream job and what better time than now—unemployed—to go through this exercise again?

Thinking back I remember that the concept of a "Dream Job" was too broad to wrap my head around. Hmm... so many careers so little time. What made me tick? My friend told me to reflect on my interests and passions, present and past. How far back in the past to wander, I wasn't sure but wanting to cover as much territory as possible I went a long way.

Sometime in 2^nd grade I had my first thoughts of teaching as a career and dabbled with the idea for many years after. A prolific and passionate reader since before preschool, and a novice writer and a talented talker, English was the likely target subject. Although the grammar part of that equation didn't float my boat, when challenged by the 7^th grade English teacher I idolized—young, pretty, funny, smart—to memorize all the prepositions in the English language, I embraced the pointless exercise with gusto. A few points of extra credit earned and I can still recite them in alphabetical order.

But despite the fantastic hours, insane amount of vacation and that incomprehensibly fabulous contractual guarantee called tenure, I didn't think I'd find fulfillment to go back to earn an M.Ed  and then have to take a job as substitute teacher waiting for Superman. So, back to the drawing board; what did I want to be? Who was hiding beneath, beside, between, beyond… my television executive identity?

Those thoughts reminded me that for a time starting in eighth grade I became passionate about art. When my parents returned from parent-teacher conferences and proudly informed me the art teacher said I was very talented, in fact, talented enough to one day sell my artwork in a mall, I ran to my room and cried. I shifted direction to a more grounded, practical and better paying pursuit—medicine. But what kind of doctor should I be? 

I dreamed of plastic surgery. I know it sounds vapid but I came up with a solid plan to merge my quest for financial security with medical altruism. I would specialize in reconstructive surgery doing enough noses, boobs and facelifts to support my true passion—correcting harelips for children from third world countries, re-attaching limbs and grafting skin for burn victims. The plan was beautiful but didn't take into account one major obstacle—squeamishness.  It was so bad that when a freshman year floor mate badly cut her leg while shaving in the common bathroom sink, I crumpled to the floor while she went to get her own Band-Aid.

What about that great big default career—law? It was perfect and in the past I'd pondered that one too. I loved the idea of standing up and speaking for the downtrodden, although not the criminal. I could free the wrongly convicted or prosecute violators of civil rights, be the voice of the voiceless or work pro bono to save the world… yeah, you know why that one didn't work. 

I thought about my adult interests. Psychology—a lot more school and a lot more expense. Same for professor of comparative religion, food anthropologist, sociologist, plus I've heard the politics of academia put those of the corporate world to shame. If my dream wasn't to be a teacher, an artist, a doctor, a lawyer, a Native-American chief.

I was back at square one until I recalled the joy, ecstasy even, when the author who led my first fiction writing workshop at Gotham loved my first short story– "finely rendered" she called it.  That was it right? I shouldn't go back to the "work" world. I should write. I should write short stories or novels. I'm a writer. It is my soul work. I visualized this new dream job.

My vision was magnificent. I am a National Book Award winning author whose critically acclaimed, best-selling books have been adapted for the screen, becoming box office blockbuster films that incredibly enough were equally critically acclaimed – think Godfather I and II.  I had adapted the books to screenplay myself and was nominated for and favored to win the Oscar for best adapted screenplay. What would I wear?  Who would I thank? I was excited.  I'd found the key to my professional happiness.

I sat down at the computer to begin my new life, pulled up old notes and ideas for novels and screenplays.  Not long after I saw there were a couple of problems with my new plan. A writer's life is a solitary one and I crave human interaction, collaborative work efforts and mutual goals. The second, more immediately pressing and not easily remedied: there isn't a salary for novelists! You are shocked? I know. I was too. 

Was this dream job exercise as pointless as my preposition memorization? I don't think so. I remembered and learned a few things about myself and gained perspective and insight. My career fantasies are now tempered with reality, among them time limits and financial constraints. A career doesn't exist in a vacuum, but has to meld my talents and interests with family needs and other practicalities. Still, it's wonderful to dream and the book I'll write on my own time will become reality. And the Oscar? I can visualize it on the mantle. I'm still working on the dress. 

Mindy Gibson has worked in broadcast media through most of her career, primarily as a television programming executive launching three networks, including Telemundo and USA Network's cable channels in Latin America and Brazil.  Her column, Career Interrupted, will appear twice a month on Rye Patch.