Yesterday, I accessed my voice mail to be greeted by this message from a relative in Denver:
"I just called to see if your fat butt got a job!"
It is odd to me that there are those who do not consider freelance projects to be actual work. (Then again, I have a sibling who swears I have "never done a day's work" in my life, which calls into question, I guess, the judge rather than the one being judged.) to work from home amid the daily distractions of everyday living requires a special kind of discipline. It is imperative to enjoy the work being done, to find fulfillment in it--otherwise, the insidious beckoning of those dishes piled up in the dishwasher, the three loads of laundry waiting to be tackled, or that favorite rerun of Masterpiece Theatre or The Gilmore Girls prove impossible to ignore.
Truly, this is not the best option for everyone. Many need the structure of a "typical nine-to-five". I have one long-time acquaintance who actually rents office space on a busy downtown street because, "I just can't spend all that time alone in front of the computer. I need to be able to see and hear that rat race as I type."
To each his own....
Still, the selling point for choosing the freelance option (at least for me) is the flexibility it affords. The truth is, I am probably a more grueling (and critical) taskmaster than any boss or supervisor ever could be. The constant reminders of the mundane projects baked up behind me provide the incentive necessary to keep me on track and progressing at a brisk pace. Being, furthermore, one of those irksome perfectionists who needs to get everything done ahead of time, working independently does not pose a problem for me.
Knowing when to call it a day, however, does.
As much as I love Colorado, my body has yet to bounce back from the transition. This last week, I must say, has been--as a result--an absolute killer! If one can picture a near-forty woman huddled beneath a coverlet banging away at her laptop as she all but convulses with chills, he (or she) has a pretty doggone good mental image of me. In some ways, much was accomplished: in other ways, I feel as though I am falling steadily behind. All the same, I have adored every minute of it. Working on such a wide range of different projects (spanning so many different literary forms and disciplines) is never boring. In fact, it thrills me. And, being at the mercy of no one's schedule but one's own (for the most part) is to me a beautiful thing.
Even if it means that others think my "fat butt" (all the better to sit at my computer with, my dear) isn't holding down an actual "job."
So, for all you freelance writers, editors, and ghostwriters out there, never let anyone compel you to feel as though your work, your time, your efforts are of any less value than anyone else's just because you chose to meet your deadlines in a baby-doll nightie and fuzzy Eeyore slippers. The quality of written work stands, regardless of the conditions under which that work was completed; thus and therefore, my friends...
Just keep writing, ya'll.
Who would have thought that this simple business of freelance work could become so very frustrating--not to mention complicated?!?!?
When I first mentioned the intention to "work from home," the response was usually, "You'll never get anything done: too many distractions." According to the general consensus, I would find myself--rather than knuckling under and focusing on the task at hand--flipping on the television, meandering to the kitchen for tea, finishing up that never-ending list of household chores (which always seems much easier to tackle in solitude). I would never, I was warned, get any real work accomplished.
Little did I suspect that the opposite would be the case! All too often, I find myself up at three p.m. still tapping away at the keys, certain that were I to put even the simplest thing off, it would somehow fail to get done. Perhaps this would not be so bad, if one does not happen to be one of those infuriatingly perfection-driven souls who cannot settle for a good job...or even a great job...but must always strive to surpass even The Best.
(For the record, compulsive people don't have any sense of moderation, ya'll.)
Yes, the freedom to earn my daily bread barefoot, stretched out on the carpet in a tank top in shorts is definite thrill. Alright: to be blunt, it is downright additive. At this point when a client suggest Skype, addtional face-to-face meetings, or other scenarios which require putting an actual brush to my hair and donning adult attire, every cell within my body has a tendency to actually CRINGE.
Yes, I'm utterly spoiled, people.
Even so, the casual environment tends to urge me to be more fastidious rather than less so. With the work staring at me constantly, the temptation to "just push through" is nearly impossible to escape; thus, I finding myself working longer hours, obsessing over finer details than I would were I putting in the traditional 9 to 5 in someone else's office.
This is my name on the line, after all!
My reputation is at stake.
And, there is no one to take the blame for that un-dotted "i" or uncrossed "t" but ME!
Additionally, with the children away, there are few (if any) diversions from the lure of the computer screen. Left on my own, it is easy to forgo such inconveniences as...say...eating, sleeping, or taking a breather in the interest of "just getting this one LAST paragraph edited."
Even now, as I find myself taking on the task of "writing coach" (or, as somewhat facetiously retitled by the client) "developmental editor" to an individual whose solemn belief is that the "more the merrier" (as opposed to my staunch, heartfelt position that "too many cooks spoil the soup) with regards to the number of editors, coaches, and contributors invited "on board," I catch myself putting in more work, more effort, more time than the project (and pay for the project) should entail.
The writer in me is so fiercely protective of the artist's "voice" that I find myself examining then re-examining elements of style in order to make sure--in my corrections, suggestions, and general notations--that I am not imposing my own will upon the client, injecting my own literary preferences and tendencies into another person's work.
Even when taking a project I dislike...
.
Such as this one.
It isn't that I lack faith in the manuscript itself. The individual has taken a timely, undeniably pertinent topic and examined it in such a way that would be (and will be) of particular interest, given the times. The problem, unfortunately, is that I am not, when it comes to writing and/or editing, a team player, by any means; nor do I like the constant contradiction of my work by others. In my mind, I'm pretty doggone good at what I do; as such, the repeated interjection of seemingly less qualified influences--quite frankly--sets my blood t'boilin'!
I can't work that way.
Better to make my contributions then step away as the finished piece is reformed, refinished, and re-evaluated by some unknown entity I shall never meet offering opinions I shall never hear!
Why, then, am I working so diligently on a project from which I have already disassociated myself.
Yes, even after explaining to the writer my position--making it clear that after the agreed-upon trial read-through, it seemed advantageous to all concerned if we parted company--I cannot, somehow, let the whole thing go. Having signed on, even if under false notions of the capacity in which my services would be required, the perfectionist in me just can't leave a task--any task--undone.
Ergo, the only course of action is to--in my solitude--adopt a no-nonsense attitude summon up the fortitude to strike that ever-elusive balance between a job well-done...and a job overdone.
Any suggestions??????????????????
This week finds me taking on several new projects in an effort to break free of the restrictive confines of ghostwriting, with its soul-draining demands for unqualified anonymity. Admittedly, I have found myself offered my services at ridiculously reduced rates for no other reason than to establish a client base here in Colorado; yet the independence is exhilarating. Certainly, once the volume of work "picks up," I won't be able to be as adventurous in my selections (after all, it is not the quality of my work which is in any way diminished by the lowering of fees but rather the amount of extra time and extra attention to detail) but until then...
Anyone in need of a good writing coach, people?
Yesterday, I learned my father quite possibly--indeed, most probably--has cancerous matter within his colon...
Today would have been my mother's seventy-eighth birthday.
My father's surgery is, at present, scheduled for the twenty-second of October...
Right between the birthdays of his youngest (the twenty-first) and eldest (the twenty-third) sons.
Life is just filled with little ironies...isn't it?
These last two days have been quite eventful ones for me. First of all, the first broadcast of my son's fledgling talk radio show aired last evening. It was both exhilarating and nerve-racking to sit back as my "baby" took up the microphone and boldly expressed his views. I suppose a mother never quite gets it into her head or her heart that her children are no longer children; thus, even as one bites the lip, sits on the hands, and resolves herself to let them spread their wings and soar to heights unknown, the urge to snatch any available limb and drag them back into childhood grows ever-stronger, ever more compelling each day.
Still, had I not wanted him to voice his views, I should not have crusaded, "soapboxed," and preached the importance of social change and personal ethics (like a crazy woman, ya'll) all these years. Thus, I can only sit back, be proud, and let him-- indeed, let all three of them, break through the stratosphere--trusting that somehow I managed to provide them each with the tools, the knowledge, and the advice necessary to help them develop into the best people they can possibly be...
(But t'ain't easy, ya'll!)
Another odd development involved my father, of all people. my relationship with the Hill family can be described as contentious at best, with my assuming the role of the rebellious, hard-headed, trouble-making outcast destined to pose an ever-present threat of embarrassment for the others. This I have accepted over the years--sometimes with amusement, others with chagrin: in anger, resentment, exasperation, indifference, curiosity, and even resolve. Still, through it all, my connection with my biological father has remained a tenuous one at best.
Certainly, I could easily devote an hour to my rantings and ravings on the subject of my father--his mistakes, his (probably unintentional) cruelty, the deplorable way he treated my mother: the list goes on and on. How does one develop or even harbor the faintest glimmer of hope for healthy interaction with someone who has for eight-five years remained so totally self-absorbed as to have no real concept of the needs, feeling, or emotions of others? Over the years, I have found my attitude oscillating between tearful animosity and bone-melting pity towards the man.
Then, this morning, in a rare e-mail from my oldest sister, I learned that my father had received the results of a test he mentioned to me in passing earlier this week. In his latest barrage of tests, the doctors apparently found within his colon definite cause for alarm, necessitating surgery on the 22nd. In truth, I had no idea how I felt about the matter. My father has not, to any significant degree, been a real parent to me, although there have been the odd bright moments here and there. So busy was the man attempting to control everything and everyone around him that he robbed himself and those around him of the opportunity to enjoy healthy, happy, productive lives. Now, at eighty-five, with a lifetime of regrets behind him, he sits alone in a prison he unknowingly constructed for himself--his wife gone, his children at the distance for which he alone is responsible--facing the end of his existence on this Earth; and one cannot help but feel a tinge of sadness for all that he did not and will never know.
It is odd, after years of being the "bad" one and the "misfit" to find myself identified as "the only one who calls regularly" (even though this particular moniker was also bestowed upon me by my mother in the years before she died). All my life, it has seemed to me, my father and I have been at loggerheads--my accusing and demanding "satisfaction" and his criticizing and hiding behind "plausible deniability." Any girlish dreams of sappy Hallmark moments, of tenderness and cathartic revelation were abandoned so long ago that I can not, at present, recall them--even though, realistically, I know they must have once existed. Does not every young girl long to be "Daddy's little girl," swept up into strong, protective arms then swung high and with exuberant affection towards the awaiting heavens? Last year, in fact, the oft-mentioned "best friend" urged me to "make a demand and expect it to be met" because he was sure "there was fruit there" (between my father and myself) and felt that "every little girl needs her father". At the time, with everything else going on in my life, my response was one of annoyance at being asked to revisit something so obscure and inconsequential in the course of my being; nevertheless, looking back, I suppose the points made were valid ones. The connection between father and daughter should be a self-affirming one, filled with all the elements of elation, satisfaction, continuity, and stability which provide one with the foundation of a full and fulfilling life.
For some of us, however, such is not the case.,
At this point, I have been without the love and support of a father for so long that I honestly don't think I miss it. If asked, I do not think I love him...or even had the opportunity to do so. In hindsight, it is apparent that he, in making the decisions that he did, hurt himself more than anyone else--save my mother; thus, any anger, animosity, or resentment would be lost on him. How can one harbor animosity towards someone who has done far more damage to himself than any hatred by another could even begin to match? He has missed out on every milestone in my life as well as the lives of my children; when I needed him, he was not there; he and I share precious few memories with the possibility of making new ones virtually nonexistent; there have been few shared confidences, few meaningful conversations, little affection, and no depth of feeling whatsoever...plus, sadly enough, this reality, this truth is one that characterizes his relationships (or, rather, non-relationships) with all eight of his other remaining children (more, if one counts the unacknowledged "halves" that are floating about).
Having spoken to him, having heard the regret in many of his statements, having felt the loss that comes from knowing that one's deeds are irrevocable--the best years of his life far behind him, I cannot help but look around me in awe of all that life has afforded me, all that I have for which to be grateful. Yes, I sit in an empty apartment, sure that with each passing day my brother has made a bonfire of my belongings back in Connecticut. It is true that materialistically, my children and I have comparatively little. There have been more than out share of struggles, hardships, miseries, and catastrophes; nevertheless, we have operated under the belief that life is to be lived, to be enjoyed...not simply endured, drawing our small quartet close in a way that defies the obstacles of time and circumstance. I am happy here in Colorado Springs. The prospect of a successful writing career looms ahead of me despite the temporary obstacles. My children are contented, for the most part, with themselves and their lives. The future stretches before us--with all tis love, laughter, tears, accomplishments, failures, experiences, lessons, celebrations, twists, turns, and eventualities--in a glorious panorama of possibility; and we are not afraid to face it.
My father is not, was not so fortunate.
To quote his own words, "...but I was afraid to take the chance...."
It really is true, people...
It is not a cliche:
We truly do have only one life to live...and the trick of it is living that life in such a way that the good times overshadow the bad, the triumphs outnumber the regrets, the fond memories outshine the sad ones, the accomplishments minimize the failures, and the laughter drowns out the tears.
My father, unfortunately, failed to understand that, which--seems to me--is the greatest tragedy of all.
How I hope and pray, regardless of all that has come before, that somehow, some way, to some extend he finds some peace of mind in these last days and weeks, months and years he has left on this Earth.
Well, I officially moved into my new apartment last Saturday. Despite a few unforeseen detours, familial diversions, and utter exhaustion (yesterday, the activity, the stress, the excitement, and all the running about finally caught up to me, leaving me curled up on my lonely little borrowed mattress, struggling to breathe and popping aspirin to relieve the dizzying pain of my over-taxed heart), I must admit that I am far happier, far more contented, far more optimistic than I have been in years.
Hmmmmm...
Renewals....
In less than half-an-hour, I will find myself face-to-face with a friend from Middlebury (a fellow freelance writer) whom I have not seen in over twenty years.
Where has the time gone?
As daunting as the prospect of such a reunion is in so many ways, I find myself too excited to even sit still. New beginnings, new prospects, new adventures: these are all so compelling, so enchanting...so intriguing. I can't wait to learn
what will happen next...and learn about myself in the process.
(Ah! Grist for the mill...or in this case, ideas for the word processor, ya'll!)
Renewals:
They present themselves in so many strange and wonderful forms, don't they?
Well, here comes another tale of misery and woe: doom, despair and agony on me. (Don't you love it?) So, sit back, get out your handkerchief, and carefully tune those violins!
Outside, the rain falls in a steady, melodic tattoo. I close my eyes, attempting to sink into the bliss of the dark, stillness, willing it to beckon to me as usual.
No such luck.
Peace, tranquility, serenity: these are not to be my companions this day. This day, the rain serves only to exacerbate a sense of dread. Though such weather usually leaves me shivering with delight, today it strikes me as lonesome and dreary.
Believe it or not, I find myself facing even more setbacks in this oft-discussed move. (Sometimes I feel like the Boy Who Cried, "Wolf!") Yesterday, I had to cancel the movers (albeit, I like to think of the decision as "rescheduling"). Naturally, a van was dispatched anyway, despite assurances that the date had been firmly and without incident changed. Verbal sparring with a cuttingly polite dispatcher who emitted his impatience through clenched teeth was not exactly the best way to begin the day. 
It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.
In that single act of altering my plans, I put myself in the position of having to face what a truly staggering endeavor this all is. Here I am, a single mother with no outside help--not to mention three teenagers boarding at their schools) attempting to pack up and move across country with questionable health and amid "friends" whose answers to my fears,setbacks, and hardships tend to be, "Oh, if anyone can do it you can," or "It'll all be worth it once you get to Colorado!"
The question is: will I ever get there?
Most devastating about this setback is the stark truth that I have convinced myself the transition itself will somehow replace that which is now missing within me. Somehow, the detachment from healthy human contact, light and optimism developed here has festered into a disinterest in life, in living, in writing. Although I was told repeatedly that, having been as ill as I had been, mentally, psychologically, and even physically, there could be "re-entry" pangs in returning to the land of the living. I was told to be patient, not to panic, and to accept it as a reasonable manifestation of the trauma and damage my body had sustained due to nearly three years of critical anemia (as a result of g6pd and/or MDS) in conjunction with the significant head injury sustained from my very lovely car accident under two years earlier. Logically, I suppose, this all made a degree of sense; nevertheless, with the deepening disinterest in all things once "Chance," the desire to write, to connect with others, to even participate in the daily activities of life waned alarmingly. Frankly, my childhood left me adept as putting on the big smile and plodding through the hard times; nevertheless, no amount of mental cheerleading could resurrect in me the enthusiasm for life which had, there-to-fore, always sustained me and enriched my life.
Maybe, then, I placed too much significance in this single--though monumental--act of "change." It is as if I had tied all my ambitions, all my longings, far too much hope in the recuperative properties of physical change. Because life in New Haven has proven so very miserable in so many ways, the simple concept of relocating to a place of my choice under my terms was enticing, even intoxicating. In my enthusiasm, I found myself again jotting down phrases and images, making hasty entries into the journal which had for many weeks gone untouched.
Then the complications began.
And with every new problem, every new glitch, every new development, that lovely glow of anticipation diminished.
Now I find myself benumbed, overwhelmed, and quite weary. How does one carry out such a tremendous undertaking alone? Certainly, I--myself--don't know. Do I continue on to Colorado, leaving our belongings here, in the belief that somehow, someway I will find some way to "PPT" things to rights once I get there? Do I give up and stay here, feeling the very life's force drain from me day by day? Do I take up needlepoint? Gameboy? Drink?
Right now, I haven't a clue.
I know only that when I call anyone for help or that extra "push" in any direction, the result is usually the same: "I'm sure it's not as bad as you think...If anyone can get through this, you can."
Perhaps I shall one day learn the secret of asking for and accepting help rather than plowing through life expecting to do all, overcome all, accomplish all on my own. I often wonder how many others out there encounter a similar dilemma--having proven themselves so capable and resilient that they are often left to do the superhuman with little or no practical understanding. On one hand, it is a great compliment. To know that others assume you capable of mastering any task, reaching any goal, or transforming any hope, dream, or aspiration into reality is, at times, a tremendous motivator. In short, you can't fail: failing is not an option; therefire, you take a deep breath, plaster on a winning smile, and pray that somehow , you can manage to pull the thing (whatever it may be at the moment) off with at least a modicum of dignity.
Yet,on the other hand, there are always those "panic attack" moments in which one gravitates from abject hopelessness to a sense of injustice and indignation. I ask myself, why must I expect myself to forever achieve the unachievable? Why am I never allowed to be scared or discouraged or overwhelmed? Why is it that the problems of others are considered significant while mine are brushed aside as inconsequential simply because it is perceived that I always "find a way"?
I have to admit, I spent the entire day in bed in my underwear huddled beneath my covers praying for the world to end!
I, in fact, slept for hours after completing my requisite morning walk (which the chronically anemic must take in order to maintain the metabolism), trying to take comfort from the assurances from a woman I met that morning (having stopped in at a church on impulse) that this move was right for me, that I had to make it to Colorado, that there was nothing for me in New Haven...yet offered me no clue as to how I was to accomplish this other than, "Ask for help." Only vaguely did I notice the strains of "Any Day Now" wafting from my Blackberry (indicating that someone, somewhere wanted to reach me); yet, when I did stir myself enough to check the call logs, the calls were from wrong numbers, the moving company (calling to confirm my dates, naturally) and the one person I probably should not have spoken to (a classmate from prep school). Why I took the call, I cannot say, for it seemed tinged with one part glee in my stress, one part dismissal of my concerns, and--at last--the recurring theme of "don't complain to me: you're moving to Colorado!"
It's been a rough day
Still in all, there is no one to whom I can turn:this is a fact. No fairy godmother will materialize from thin air (though I have asked several people if they have one to spare). No knight in shining armor will ride to my rescue. No one is going to delve into the old bank account or run to my side to hold my hand. If this New Beginning is to happen, it will happen because I found a way to somehow struggle through, over, and past the series of rather daunting obstacles all by my little lonesome...even if that means leaving my belongings here for heaven-only-knows how long while I struggle to find the last bit of the first month's rent, a "day" job (until I establish contacts in the area), and some way to make at least the semblance of a home for my children.
Whatever it takes, I have to make this work.
(If anyone out there knows what "whatever" might be, do me a favor: please tell me!!!!!!)
