Does my phone number have a “call me” sign taped to its back? Three telemarketers have interrupted me so far this evening since I sat down to work.
In other news, I have 678 words of a preface written. Most of them are good. I feel like I’m missing something meaningful, but most of my overbrain considers this a symptom of exhaustion.
I feel like I’ve been walking around asleep for the past two days, which is a bad thing. I couldn’t stop yawning last night at orchestra, and when I try to remember something from the past forty-eight hours my mind’s eye sees it through a sort of odd distorted filter. It’s just general exhaustion that has accumulated over the past ten days. Too, Liam seems to have recently developed an extra level of energy that makes being at home with him and keeping up with his antics that much harder, despite his ongoing awesomeness, as well as a new edge to his mood that pushes the limit of patience (both his and mine).
All I want to do is take a bath and go to bed (do you sense a theme in the last week’s worth of posts?). The preface needs to be finished before I can do that. A seven hundred and fifty word article. It’s 19h00 right now. I have a two-hundred word point-form outline. I can do this.
It’s probably a bad sign that I want to use my ‘Buggre Alle this’ icon before I’ve even begun working.
I am so virtuous. So very, very virtuous.
Another two hours of work accomplished. That’s a total of five hours today! (Hey, if you are aware in any shape or form of my track record lately, you too would be cheering. Raise the roof! Raise it!)
I’ll polish it up tomorrow and send it off. Now, I’m going to kick back and go read some Jungian analysis of fairy-tales. (Yeah, well, I find it interesting, so there.)
Sell yourself, don’t sell yourself short.
A lady whose opinion means a lot to me said this to me yesterday as we talked about my move into the freelance world, and this editorial position on the magazine staff. The work world is changing, and my generation seems to be the one that, as usual, has to strike a balance of some kind between the world of our parents’ generation and the world that the people fifteen years behind us will take for granted. In this case, it’s the realisation that we have to market our skills to a variety of places simultaneously, because our skills are theoretically valuable. They’re not valuable enough to build an entire job position around, however.
Hence the rather catchy phrase. As a freelancer, you do indeed have to sell yourself. And I’m terrible at that. I ‘m innately shy, and usually the last thing I want is to be noticed. When you’re seeking freelance work, however, that’s precisely the opposite of what you’re trying to do.
My strengths, of course, lie in the copy-editing and proof-reading areas. Areas which, amusingly enough, many tech writers and copy-writers I’ve met absolutely detest. It’s second-nature for me; sometimes I joke that I was born with a red pen in my hand. It’s an ideal situation, actually; the writers hand their work off to me with a sigh of relief, and I get work that I enjoy and that I do well.
In January, I’ll be polishing up my C.V. and passing it along to a bunch of people and places. I’ll agonise over a confident and clearly communicative cover letter (I hate cover letters) that announces my brilliant capability with style.
And, damn it, I’m going to publish. I have two and a half novels written since July alone, and over seventy single-spaced pages of notes on an esoteric non-fic reference book.
That lady whose opinion means a lot to me is right. I sell myself short. Most of us do. I think it comes from a combination of things, not the least of which was growing up in a world where you were polite, and never boasted, or said you were better than someone else, a world which taught us that if we were good, things would come to us on their own. Now, things have changed: the world has taught us that we have to shout louder than the next person in order to be heard, we have to show off in order to move ahead. Is it any wonder that people around thirty or thirty-five are so confused, and are one of the highest age demographics of the unemployed?
There are times when your mother tells you you’re special, and you think she’s saying it just because she’s your mother. And then, there are the times where she says it as one person to another, and you hear it in an entirely different way. I am talented. And I am special.
Thanks, Mum.