Casual Fridays For The Freelancer

My iPhone alarm goes off at 8:30.  I push “Snooze”, or “OK” and fall asleep for another thirty minutes—an hour—it really all depends on whether or not I have a deadline.  For the next half hour or so I check and respond to e-mails or voice messages from the desk in my bedroom, still in a nightgown or whatever it was I wore to bed.  The rest of the day is a harmonious blend of what looks like a housewife/slacker/CEO pacing in and out of each room, scheming up article ideas, having phone meetings, making lunch, or walking the dog.

Friday, Monday, Saturday, they’re all the same for me because I work from home.  It means that I’m never actually fully working and I’m never actually fully relaxing.  Being a freelance writer is something to be proud of.  It makes my 13-year-old self happy to know I’m doing something somewhat similar to what I wrote on the lines of my junior-high journals.  The only thing different is the sum on my 1099 tax returns. But every once in a while I flirt with the idea of working 9-to-5 in an office, in a cubical, spending my free time talking to Jim and Pam Halpert about their 2nd baby on the way.

You’ve heard me go on about my glamorous, unglamorous life.  I love it, I sincerely do.  Yet in this time of uncertainty (yes I said it), I find it hard to sleep at night knowing that all of my security lies on how well I’m able to hustle my craft of writing or any anything else I’m willing to do to make the ends meet (a reference for the girls working the corner on the The New Yorker cartoon above).  There isn’t a trust-fund waiting for me, or a savings account.  I don’t have grandparents in the states who are able to write me a check if I ever find myself in trouble.  I am utterly and truly fiscally on my own and that scares me.

So when the fear factor finds its creepy ways inside of my brain, I sit on my couch while eating a sandwich and punch away at my keyboard.  I know that despite how much dough I make from the words that appear on the screen, the fact that I’m writing gives me solace all by itself.  And by golly that makes me feel pretty damn lucky.  So, Happy New Year, baby.  I wish you all the best this year.  May you do what makes your heart happy and may it be prosperous for years to come!

P.S., My resolution is to dress up for work everyday, even if I don’t leave the house. Everyday except, you know, Friday.

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