They say numbers don't lie. It's true. But they also don't exclaim, dance, or cry—all of which good writing can do. There is a certainty in working with numbers, an absoluteness that if the math works, all is well; shut out the light and go home. Writing has emotion and challenges and fun, but no such sign of finality, no way to tell with absolute certainty that a project is done.

I came to writing after 20 years in accounting and finance. In my previous experience, things got finished. You had a list of things to do, and items were checked off. The variance became zero; there were no more errors to be found; the assets equaled the liabilities plus the equity; the budget was cut by 15 percent. Done. You might not have been happy with how you got there, it might have meant layoffs or canceled projects, but the objective was met. Initialed, signed, and delivered. Crossed off the list.

But things are not so simple with writing. There is no variance to bring to zero. Sure, you can use word count as a guide. An editor may require 1,000 words, for example, and a few clicks can tell you you're at 623 words, 377 to go. But that's just one small measure of completeness. The trick is which 1,000 words to use. There are drafts and revisions and redrafts and more redrafts. Writing is at times a painful process. It seems as if the words are being physically pulled from you. A word or a phrase at a time. You reread it and revise it over and over again. Finally, more spent than satisfied, you put it aside. You sleep, you dream, you live your life. Then, you pick up that work, look at it, and see something that needs to be changed. Maybe it's something simple, a word tense here or there, maybe a typographical error. Or, worse, you look at it and say, "My God, what was I thinking?" And scratch out a paragraph or a whole page. It is a cycle that goes on and on, finally ending who knows where—somewhere in that murky area between exhaustion and satisfaction.

When I found myself on the wrong end of a budget cut—checked off of someone's to-do list—I realized it was my chance. Long dissatisfied with finance anyway, I could finally do something involving writing. The last absolute in my career of absoluteness was that I knew I absolutely couldn't go back.

A quick analysis led me to two choices. I could work in an entry-level job, schlepping coffee and making copies in the hope that someday someone would let me write something I probably wasn't interested in. Or I could work for myself and write what I want. (And, of course, schlep coffee on the side.) I agonized for a bit, but it turns out the decision was the easy part. I opted for the freelance life. What's been really hard is getting used to the idea that this is what I do. With a sidewalk cafe as my office, I've had to convince myself it is OK to enjoy myself and still call it work. I suspect that my friends think that I am lazy or crazy. Sometimes, I wonder myself if I am.

Working as a freelancer, there's even less of a clear endpoint—no editor hovering nearby yelling at me to wrap things up. My ritual of repetitious revision is thus often a lonely undertaking, hours spent in front of a computer screen with nothing new, only some polishing, to show for it. This is light years away from my days of meetings, spreadsheets, and project teams. Then there was always an agenda—a definable goal that could be quantified. From inbox to outbox, there was always something to show for it, a stack of reports or a project plan for the 9:00 meeting in conference room B. The only uncertainty was that you would make it through the line at Starbucks to get there on time.

But though I sort of miss the typed agenda and rush-hour line for coffee—who am I kidding? No, I don't—I like that I don't have to start at 9 a.m. I can start whenever I want, maybe even at 9 p.m., with a glass of red wine instead of a venti latte. I can wear whatever I want—a t-shirt and jeans sure beats a suit and heels, and makeup is optional—and the suits that once filled my closet, lined up in an orderly row of navy, brown, and black, have dwindled down to a few favorites. Even those will soon be gone, donated to a women's shelter or the Goodwill. Nylons and shined shoes are also a thing of the past, symbols of conformity, relics of a lifetime ago.

In accounting and finance, people talk about the challenges and the opportunities for advancement. There are things to get done, and the benchmarks are clear: month-end, fiscal year-end, and the all-important annual review. On a scale of 1–5, how much did you get done? How many binders did you fill? How many deadlines did you meet? Did you always get the variance to zero? No one ever asks if you had fun doing it, just that it got done. You do it to get ahead. You do it because it is expected.

But writing—well, writing is fun. The process can be grueling, but going after a story, interviewing someone new, learning about life, it's all—whether adventurous or amusing or somewhere in between—interesting. And when your writing changes someone's life, or puts them in the center of their own universe, it can be incredibly gratifying. So can falling in love with a phrase. Or starting out with a vague idea and coming up with the perfect way to express it. Or playing with words and crafting a solid paragraph or page. Writing a story that makes someone else happy or seeing your name in print is the best high that there is. A writer uses words to put images in the reader's mind. You do it to build bridges. You do it because it is unexpected.

There was a time when I checked items off a list; I filled binders with schedules and worksheets. Ticked and tied. I got things done. Destiny was in conference room B. Now there is no destiny neatly mapped out. The next story could be anywhere, it is only up to me to determine if this one is done. I could revise a phrase or change just one more word, or I could turn it in. In spite of the security of a career in finance, letting go of the safety and sureness of numbers turns out to be a liberating experience. It's scary, yes, but the freefall into the uncertainty of completion turns out to be an exhilarating rush into the world of words and expression.

E. Jeanne Harnois is in the process of revising herself. A freelance writer in Boston, she writes features for Boston newspapers and is currently trying her hand at movie reviews for an arts-and-entertainment website.