Welcome to the inaugural post of My Freelancing Fifties, a
self-indulgent blog of my terrified musings as a newly launched full-time
freelance writer!
As of the end of business on December 31, 2014, I left the
safety and security of my 8-year stint as a legal secretary in my small town to
pursue my writing on a full-time basis.
I’ll be right back after I have an anxiety attack.
This decision wasn’t made hastily. I liked my day job, for the most part. It had given me the opportunity to get to
know everybody in town, and to know
interesting and sometimes unsavory things about them, and, as my mother said
about her career as a legal secretary, “where the bodies are buried.”
I did some writing in high school, interning for The
Saratogian Newspaper in high school and learning some hard lessons in the
summer of my junior year at The Spa City Spectator, a little weekly
independent. I idolized my older cousin
Marianne, a bona fide writer who went to college and everything, who wrote for NBC’s kid’s program Hot Hero Sandwich in the late 70’s.
She sent me a press kit, and I felt like I had entered the inner
sanctum.
But life is what happens while you’re busy making other
plans, especially if you’re not paying attention. I got married, had a baby, got divorced, then
played that trifecta again. During that
time and beyond, I worked primarily in the secretarial and its peripheral
fields. I was good at these jobs. I was organized, efficient, a self-starter. Some of these jobs sucked and a couple were
wonderful, with coworkers who were and continue to be blessings in my life. I did interesting things like work in
strategic planning, domestic violence and a very brief stint in a veterinary
office.
All the while, I dabbled with my writing, doing a stray
article here and there. I finally met a
wonderful man who thought I was the greatest thing since sliced bread AND
wasn’t a flake. He encouraged me to keep
writing. I had my arsenal of excuses –
no time, no college, no internet, no talent – and didn’t hesitate to use them
to keep myself down.
Then a couple of years ago, two friends (one a life coach,
the other a yoga instructor) approached me about doing a writing component at a
women’s retreat they were organizing. In
my brain, this smacked of validation, even though I kept asking myself why they
thought I of all people had anything to offer.
(Thankfully, self deprecation gets old, and eventually you stop.)
Planning for the retreat, and working with these awesome
people, got me thinking in different directions. It was empowering and fun. But it wasn’t something
I could pay my bills by doing.
I sent out some letters of inquiry to publications I liked
and thought I could contribute to, kinda knowing what I was doing. Almost a year after sending one out to a
national quarterly I admired, the editor called me out of the blue, asking if
I’d be interested in an assignment. I
was on cloud nine, then realized I had to actually write the thing.
 |
| Bella, my Gray Muse |
I hammered out the article, angst ridden, completely unsure
of my capabilities. My husband walked in
the door and cheerfully asked “How’s it going?”
I went into a tirade of “I don’t know what I’m doing! I’m never going to get this done in time! Why did I think I could do this? I suck!!”
But I did get it done, and submitted on time. I bit my nails waiting to hear back from the
editor, expecting her to berate me on my crappy writing until I peed myself
like a puppy backed into a corner.
Instead, she wrote back with “Very nice job on the
story. I appreciate it when a writer
delivers exactly what I’ve asked for.”
I suddenly had some traction.
In February I contacted a small local weekly newspaper about
doing some freelance work for them. I
excitedly read their reply about how sure, we’d love to have you do freelance
work for us, here are our guidelines, yadda yadda. Oh, and we don’t pay freelancers, thanks!
That was a turning point for me. Yes, I’ve read where it’s good karma to write
for organizations, especially nonprofits, for free; it helps them and it helps
you, professionally and cosmically. But
I made a decision that day that, unless it was my idea, I didn’t work for
nothing. What I did, what I offered had
value. Plus I had bills to pay. I wasn’t going to give away the store.
Two weeks later, I responded to an ad in a daily newspaper with
a sizeable circulation that was looking for freelancers. They called, I interviewed, I left with my
first paying assignment.
There’s your karma. Now
I had momentum, too.
I suddenly had tight deadlines. I didn’t have the luxury of a couple of weeks
or more to put a story together, massaging it until it was just right. It was more like a couple of hours. And it made me a better writer.
When I had another magazine article assignment a couple of
months after starting the newspaper work, I completed it in half the time of
the first one, with fewer revisions. My
hourly rate suddenly jumped exponentially.
It’s true that once you put your nose to the grindstone, the
universe will start to open up. Yeah,
you have to make your intentions known and all that stuff, but it’s doing that
work that brings in the real opportunities.
In September, I made the conscious decision to leave my day
job and try to support myself from my writing.
I’ve done my best to set myself up for success: I’ve bankrolled some cash to get me through
the first couple of months of bills, I’ve reduced my expenses as much as
possible, I’ve established a strong network of professional colleagues, and
I’ve put myself in the mindset that I
will make this work. I’m not adverse
to working part-time somewhere if I need to at some point.
At 51 years of age, I’m finally making my career move. I’m not some kid fresh out of college. I’ve got some miles on me, some – let’s say –
perspective.
Through this blog, I’m inviting you to join me as I continue
to figure things out. There will be a
fair amount of blood, sweat and tears along the way, and laughs as well.
