The Scary Reality of Self-Employment

Today is the first day of my full-time self employment.

Although I had been building my business and working toward a goal of full-time freelancing, the final decision was actually someone else's. On Friday I was laid off from my manufacturing job, along with dozens of others. I'm now totally on my own.

It's a difficult transition. I've been employed full-time for my entire adult life. Before my manufacturing job, I worked in academic research, a job I had obtained as a student and continued after graduation. I've spent the past twelve years answering to bosses, counting vacation days and sick leave, taking home regular paychecks.

All of that is no more. From now on I will be answering to clients, working when I need money and taking nothing but unpaid time off. My pay will be sporadic, coming as I finish projects rather than every two weeks.

And that's when I have work to do and money to be made. The harsh reality of freelancing is that jobs are incredibly difficult to get. The few clients I've had were all obtained through friends and family. What I'm making now is nowhere near enough to support myself. I spent all morning today sending out inquiries to people I've worked with, people I'd like to work with, and people who know writers, editors, and publishers.

I may have to learn to cold-call businesses to gain their interest. Although I realize it may be necessary, I really loathe the idea. I hate talking on the phone under the best of circumstances, and interrupting someone to peddle yourself to them is far from the best of circumstances. While I recognize the potential value in it, I haven't been able to bring myself to do it yet.

For now, I'm just trying not to panic at the thought of not having enough income. I know it will improve. I know countless people have done this before me. I know I can do it too.

But damn, is this hard.

Time Really IS Money!

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about time and money. I've reached the conclusion that they're actually the same commodity. You can only have so much, and the more you have of one, the less you have of the other.

Applying this to my life, right now I have plenty of money but very little time. I often hear about a meeting or group that happens once a month, or every other weekend, or weekly. While part of my brain thinks, "Once a month really isn't that often," a bigger part screams, "We already have so little time! You want to promise even more of it to someone else?" One four-hour meeting out of 30 twenty-four-hour days is very little, but one four-hour meeting out of 20 four-hour evenings is a much greater piece of the pie.

Why do I have so little time? I spend 40 hours or more every week doing a job I don't love in order to bring home money I may not actually need.

Currently, my income exceeds my expenses, by a small margin. The majority of my expenses goes to rent. I live in a two-bedroom apartment, with drafty doors and cracks in the walls. I opted for a two-bedroom place because at my complex those are the only units with washer and dryer hookups.

But what if I simplified my life? What if, instead of spending so much money on so many square feet (most of which, let's be honest, I don't really use), I spent less on living space? What could I do with more money? Trade it for more time?

If I had less expenses, especially in the form of rent/mortgage and utility bills, I'd need less income. Could I cut my work week from 40 to 20 hours? Less?

And what would I do with more time? Catch up with friends? Sleep (oh, almost definitely)? Travel? Attend some of the "once-a-month" events that I currently feel I don't have time for?

Imagine reversing the work week. By cutting expenses, by reducing the amount of income I need, I could conceivably work two days a week instead of five. Every single week I'd have a five-day weekend. Every. Single. Week.

Egads.

This merits serious consideration.

Overconfidence

Is it possible to come across as too competent?

Here's what I mean: I am quite guilty of giving people the impression, generally, that I am a total expert on whatever I'm talking about. I don't just mean important things. I mean practically any subject. If I have even a shred of knowledge about a subject, I come across as an epic expert.

Why do I do this? I have no idea. Probably I have an astronomical confidence in myself, far more than is healthy. (Thanks for all those "you're a smart girl, you can do hard things" talks, Mom, but they seem to have backfired slightly.) But honestly, once I've learned anything new, absolutely anything, it lodges in my brain as a Kernel of Truth and, if I share it, I do so from the viewpoint of some sort of oracle.

There are some problems with this. Possibly the least of these is that I sometimes tell people their own stories. Like, I'll hear an entertaining story related to me, and, much later, forget a bunch of the details but remember the overall theme, and, like a total moron, retell it to the person it actually happened to. "Oh, you'll never believe what happened to this friend of mine!" "Yeah, that was me, actually." This is, to put it mildly, embarrassing. Luckily, my friends are quite good-natured and apparently love me for my many good qualities, enough to overlook the stupid things I do.

I'm beginning to suspect that I may also be suffering professionally for this trait. Sure, I can expound at length about the benefits of having a well-developed LinkedIn profile, and discuss trusted methods of dealing with finicky clients, and pontificate on the value of offering discounts for upfront collection of payment. But the ridiculous truth is that I haven't actually done any of these things.

I sure sound as though I have. From the way I speak, you would swear I was an amazingly successful freelance editor, dishing brilliant words of wisdom from my keyboard to the lowly masses who are unlucky enough not to have been born me. Hell, if we're being honest, speaking like an expert is what this blog is all about. I'm always going on and on about how to work, what to do, what not to do.

Like I know. I am a total amateur. I have all of one client right now, and they're a really reasonable, likable client and not at all difficult to deal with.

But nobody sees that. Do others fail to send work my way because they are certain I have enough? Do they share less advice with me, because obviously I'm far more advanced than they are? Do they recommend, to potential clients, other editors they feel may have a greater need for work, because they're certain I can handle my own marketing?

I just don't know. Nor am I at all certain I can find out. This isn't some flighty nuance of character I could change with a week's meditation; this is a major part of my personality, deeply ingrained since about the time I learned to speak. To not speak with authority would mean relearning everything I know about the world and the way I approach it.

Is there a fix I can apply that circumvents this? Do I need to learn to attach caveats and qualifiers to my statements, especially in the context of business?

Or maybe this is an asset? Maybe speaking with authority communicates my confidence well, and others respond positively to that? Maybe simply seeming as though you know what you're doing is enough to convince others that you really are competent?

I'd love to hear opinions about this.

THE Client!

So I'm trying not to count my chickens before they hatch but there are totally chickens happening!

A few months ago I met a guy at a party who mentioned that his organization contracts out their editing work. I ended up calling him some time later and we talked about the possibility of me getting hired on as a freelancer.

Well guess what? It totally worked out.

He's drawing up the contract now but it looks to be a done deal. And the best thing? This is the job I most hoped would work out. I have a few leads on a few good jobs, but this one? Nearly perfect.

I really feel like it's a good fit both ways. I know I can give them valuable work, both because I know I edit well, and because I really care about the work they're doing. And I sincerely hope that they give me plenty of work (I already know the pay is good) such that I can get out of my corporate job by the beginning of next year.

Of course I'm being all vague about who they are and what they do, because 1) I haven't actually signed a contract yet and 2) I don't want to reveal any info they don't want released. But I'm hoping I'll be able to announce everything soon!

Part of me wants to hold back from celebrating because there are still so many things that could go wrong, but the (much, much bigger) rest of me is skipping through the hallways.

Wheeeeeeee!

Not Having It All Figured Out

I had a revelation at my biotech job today.

I was in my "career development" meeting. I had been given, prior to this meeting, a series of worksheets I could use, if I wanted, to determine my career aspirations and lay out a path to achieve them. The worksheet is currently sitting blank on my desk.

My boss (who, I have to say, is amazing and is the best boss I've had, and I've had lots) knows that I am changing careers and building my own business. In fact, she supports me in this endeavor, and our meeting today was designed around how I can best spend my remaining time with the company developing skills that will help my own business succeed while still being worth what they pay me.

She asked if I'd used the worksheet. I couldn't help but chuckle. "No," I replied. "That's not really how I think about business or my career."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"To me, business isn't about having it all figured out. My business will be about making mistakes and learning from them, or doing things right and figuring out what worked about them. My direction is gained from insights I have while watching Ted talks with friends or chatting during dinner or over late-night coffee. I can't use a form to determine the direction my life will take. My business will connect me with people in ways that benefit us both. My business is not corporate; it's human."

Okay, fine, I didn't say it that eloquently, on the spot in the middle of a meeting, but you get the idea.

Not only can I not map the shape of my future by filling out a form, I'm not sure that anyone can. Corporations make this mistake all the time. Companies are not made of metrics, they're made of people, and people don't fit neatly inside checkboxes add multiple choice questions.

Where do I want my business to end up? I have no idea. Really, I don't. I know where I want it to be in a year, maybe five, but in the end? Who knows?

And would it really matter if I thought I knew? Between now and "the end" I will meet new and amazing people who will change my whole perspective on things. I'll survive heartbreak and tragedy and possibly major trauma. My views will shift, maybe radically. I am so distant now from the person I was at 22, why should I think I will be anything like I am now in ten, twenty, or fifty years? I might be several other people along that road.

And my business will change and grow, and yes, maybe fail. But that's the whole point. It will be an experience, a journey, a network.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go translate this to bullet points and upload it into my Development Tracker.

Waiting for the Right Clients

This week I complete my last copyediting course from the University of California, San Diego, and receive my copyediting certificate. It's a major milestone I've been working toward for a year now, and I'm quite pleased to have reached my goal.

This means it's time to get serious about my business. I've delayed spending significant effort working on editing until I was finished with classes, so as not to overload myself. I no longer have that need. What I need now is work.

And I find myself facing a dilemma. On the one hand, I want to find clients who need me as much as I need them. I want to find good partnerships that benefit both me and the client, in all-encompassing ways. I want to find work that fulfills me on a creative and inspirational level, and that pays well. And I want to be a greatly positive influence on the organization that hires me, helping them achieve goals they couldn't have reached otherwise.

However, like many new entrepreneurs, I want to get started this very moment. The voice inside my head is screaming, "Find work now! Take any job! Get as many clients as you can! Prune your business later!"

It may not seem that difficult to tune this voice out, but it truly is. The fear of never having enough (enough business, enough money, enough work, enough experience) has a fierce grip on me.

I know I'm not the only one to have felt this. And I know the most successful entrepreneurs have ignored their inner panic voice and waited for the right clients. I know that selecting only clients who fit well with my goals and ideals and for whom I am a good fit is the only business decision that makes sense. I don't want to have to prune later. I want to grow continually.

But wow, is it hard to wait. Patience is clearly not one of my strengths.

Silence: Worse than Rejection

If you seek advice about working as a creative professional, you'll hear one thing quite often: "Get used to rejection. Don't take it personally."

You hear it a lot, and it becomes a mantra. It's not you that's being rejected, just your work. It wasn't the right fit. It's not the right time.

Okay. This is fine. I can handle this.

What you don't hear is that rejection happens less often than silence.

Rejection implies someone took the time to review your work, evaluate it against their needs, and decide it wasn't the right fit. Silence provides no such implication. Silence could mean they never received your work in the first place. Or maybe they did and they ignored it. Or maybe they actually went through it but didn't like it.

You'll never know.

I'm trying to get new business right now and the silence is deafening. I contact potential clients every day. I send out resumes and portfolios. I email. I follow up.

Once in a while, I get a response: "Thanks for contacting us. You'll hear back if we're interested." No timeline. No idea of how long I must wait before giving them up as lost.

But that's the rare exception. Mostly I hear nothing.

There's nothing quite as terrible as an empty inbox.

I hope that someday I won't have this problem, but I know too many creative professionals to delude myself into really believing that.

So I'll continue to slog through the continually defeating task of checking for responses that will never arrive, and sending more requests for work out into the great void of silence.

Better luck to you.