The first time I glimpsed Los Angeles from a plane window, I wasn’t impressed.  The view through a taxi window on my way to Studio City wasn’t much better. The palm trees were too tall and thin. The roads were too tight and travelled. The people looked tired and troubled. Where was the gold and glitter I’d spent the last twenty-five years dreaming of? This should’ve been my first clue that dreams are fickle things. That January almost seven years ago, I’d flown 2,000 miles for work. As a newly hired editor for the Walt Disney Company, I’d achieved a damn-near impossibility in this industry: a steady, dependable paycheck with full corporate benefits—all while working mostly from home in my pajamas. The words “dream job” seriously applied. For three years, I coordinated, culled, cared for, and curated parenting-focused web content. The job was incredibly progressive and creatively freeing. We were supported by the greatest graphics and technology departments in the world. We took tiny sparks of ideas and blew them into ginormous corporate assets. But I hated waking up each morning, and turning on my laptop made me physically ill. Something was wrong, but it couldn’t be the dream job,…