Sure, I make beans compared to people who aren’t in this freelancing world. I have always wanted to be a writer, which is why I got into this to begin with. The only real benefit is that in the grand scheme of things, at least it’s something extra of an income to allow for a few luxuries here and there. When I can get more hours in due to my toddler being unusually behaved on a given day, I try to pile on more work in order to get a little bit more coming in. That doesn’t often or really ever happen, but sometimes it does.
It has given me a chance to complete NaNoWriMo two years in a row, and published both offerings. (Which you can purchase by following the links to the side.) Plus, with my toddler needing specialists to come to the house twice a week this really works out for me. Most people find what I do to be a joke, as if I’m a lazy person trying to pretend to work and be useful. I’m not taking any money from assistance; our family has earned every dollar. I’m not lazy, I just choose to follow a dream and not work a job that I hate. Do not make a joke out of it, because I take what I do seriously even if you don’t.
I took an internal tour and realized there is more to this than just following a dream. The reality of the matter is that I don’t do so well out there, out in the real world. I’m awkward. I’m beyond socially inept. I speak my mind, often without any real concern for how people take it or how it comes out. I try, I really try to not be this way but I am. It is even more than that on most days. The idea of making phone calls for work makes my heart rate pick up. I don’t like talking on the phone, especially when I don’t know who the other person is. Business calls cause all sorts of anxiety. I even opt to not take jobs that require such contact as Skyping to keep regular contact on projects. I much prefer to just be sent what I need to do and send it back without any other communication other than written.
Being out in public also causes this. I don’t know how to associate with other people. I don’t know how to make small talk. I try my hand at it, and I get nervous because I’m unsure of how successful I am at it. Even at events with other people like myself, I find that I have an easier time if someone just hands me a glass of wine to get through whatever mental craziness happens to get me through those moments. It isn’t healthy. It probably isn’t normal, but what really is?
Ideally, I could go out and teach a college class on literature or creative writing. I wish I could go out and do book readings or some other really cool event like that. I have managed to, as a result of having grades forcing me to perform such actions, but not without downing a container of Tums and praying nothing comes up. Maybe I was just meant to be at home and live my life pretending to be Emily Dickinson. I don’t mind leaving the house, I just mind any interaction I may have to have with a person when I do.
So I work from home on my own terms. I work from home because I hope eventually my hard work will pay off and I will see my dreams come true. Or maybe I will just stay this forever anxious mess. I’m oddly okay with that. It isn’t about admitting you have a problem. It’s about accepting it and figuring your way around it.