Dear Real Life Friends,
I feel like my verbal explanations of what I do all day haven’t been effective, so maybe a letter will help you understand a few things.
Yes, my work clothes are pajamas and a bathrobe most days. I traded in my flat iron and commute for bedhead and dogs on my lap. Sometimes I take naps after Jay goes to school. I’m not worried about what restaurant I’ll go to for lunch because it requires too much time and energy to get ready. All of those things are true.
However, some of you seem to be under the impression that I just do whatever I want all day and money magically appears in my bank account. While I would LOVE for that to be the case, self-employment doesn’t really work that way. At least not for me.
Please don’t be offended when I don’t answer the phone. And don’t call 11 times, then text, “Call me when u get a chance,” all because you want to tell me what your boyfriend said that pissed you off. I promise, if I could talk to you, I would. But just like when I had a “real” job, your problems are going to have to wait. And when I do answer and you ask what I’m doing, don’t laugh like it’s funny when I say, “Working.”
Of course there are perks to being my own boss. But I also deal with crap that you don’t have to think about. Like taking out my own taxes every single time I get a little bit of money in my hands. Wondering if I’ll make enough to pay this week’s bills or whether it’s time to go back to a career I hate. Working 12-18 hours a day because there’s no clocking out and going home. Getting in a really good writing groove, only to be interrupted by the dogs barking or my stomach growling or picking Jay up from school or YOU calling my effing phone multiple times back to back.
You may be shocked to hear this, but freelance writing means I have to write things. Like daily. It takes hard work to create content that people may actually want to read. And the most time-sucking tasks don’t directly result in money, yet I have to do them anyway.
The fact is, talking to you doesn’t help me get paid. While I’ll gladly call you back when I can, don’t expect me to feel sorry for you when you’re earning a salary while talking on the phone all day. And DON’T do that wistful “must be nice to stay home” thing because it makes me want to hug you. You know, because a hug is a strangle you haven’t finished yet.
If someone dies, please call me as many times as you need to until I answer the other phone. Otherwise, time to STFU and GTFO. I have work to do.