I was at a party in Delhi a couple of years ago hosted by friends of mine, where I was introduced to a well-known and respected journalist.
On hearing that I was a freelancer, this journalist was not impressed. He nodded, dismissively almost, as if we all knew that “freelancer” was code for unemployed and living off a spouse’s wages.
I don’t normally worry myself with reactions like this. I have nothing to prove to anyone. I’m quite happy with who I am. I have been an anomaly all my life, including in my own family, and I’m pretty used to holding steadfast to my beliefs and confidence in my life choices.
My friend, however, gets very protective on my behalf and he was not having it. “No, no, you don’t understand,” he said to this journalist. “She’s a proper freelance journalist, wins awards, makes money, everything. She’s written for The New York Times and TIME.”
Suddenly, this journalist found that he was much more interested in talking to me. I, of course, was not. Because if your interest in a person is based on their qualifications and success, you’re a poor excuse for a human being, as far as I’m concerned.
That said, I was not surprised by his reaction. I’m aware of the freelancing industry around the world, the perceptions as well as the reality, and I realize that I’m a rarity. I happen to be a freelancer who has, for most of her career, made a pretty good income. I also happen to be a writer who writes several thousand words daily, often without complaint.
This second rarity surprises me more. It annoys me, too, if we’re being honest, because I’m so over writers moaning about how they have no time to write. I mean, I wrote a whole damn book about how to shut up and just do it, but turns out I still have more to say on the subject. And because I don’t know your life situation, your problems, and your relationship status, I’m just going to tell you about mine.
My husband, also a journalist, and I are both not suited to long-term employment. We both love travel and would rather never be in one place for more than two years. This might explain why when we’re not able to move countries and cities, we just move homes instead! But anyway, we had a child, and it was decided that we needed a regular income and so Sam would continue working because he has a history of being gainfully employed and I’d stay home with our son and freelance because I have a history of being very good at freelancing.
Fast forward four years and I landed a top agent for my novel and my agent gave me a massive amount of revisions to work through. Sam and I decided that it would be ideal if I spent half my time working on the novel and the other half on “for money” work. Even though we need my income right now, and need it to be high, Sam took on the pressure of being the full-time wage earner and accepted a promotion that has him working ten hours a day, so that I could go and follow my dream of being a novelist.
How utterly selfish and ungrateful would I then have to be to look my exhausted husband in the eyes, the husband who has just finished a 10-hour shift, an hour-long commute, and a whole day away from his child, and tell him that it was too hard to write anything today?
I love my husband too much for his exhaustion and sacrifice to not mean anything. I love my son too much for the time he’s away from his Dad to not mean anything. I’m extraordinarily lucky in that my husband truly believes that my work will be successful, and is therefore willing to make the sacrifices necessary to facilitate the creation of it.
I’m not going to be the asshole who doesn’t appreciate that.
There is only one way for me to show my appreciation to my family for their belief and their sacrifices, and that is to do the work. I can’t ensure that it will be successful, but I can ensure that I do everything that is in my power to make it the very best that it can be. And that starts with the writing.
So, I write. I wake up in the morning and I walk the dog. I then walk three miles to and from my son’s school, come home and work for three hours. I look after my son in the afternoon when my husband is at work, finish up the housework, walk the dog again, make dinner, play with my son, and put him to bed. Then, every evening at 8pm, I sit down to write and I go until midnight, when it’s time for me to sleep. It’s a packed day.
I do not go easy on myself because being home all day and working on something that brings you creative freedom and joy is the definition of going easy on yourself.
I do not complain because you know, if I find writing too difficult, there is always the option of spending eight hours a day at a job I don’t particularly like, away from my son.
I do not forget how fortunate am I. And I choose to honor that good fortune by taking full advantage of it.
So, I write. Every day. Several thousand words a day.
Do you?