My workplace view does not include cubicles, water coolers, office "personalities," or petty politics. I get to: choose assignments and employers (in theory); work at home (in the time I save by not commuting, I can watch TV); and cook during the workday.
There's no comparison between my current routine and that of my last job. Though I enjoyed mostly good relationships with co-workers and bosses, telemarketing for a nonprofit left me feeling constantly defeated. (It's similar to freelance writing in that you hear "no" a lot. Worse, the work is monotonous, and the people at the other end of the line can be mean, often.)
One afternoon toward the end of my time there, I told my boss I needed to run an errand, then got into my car and drove - for three hours. Looking up at the tops of the tall pines in Old Orchard Beach, Maine, I vowed to change my working life for the better. And I did. One article at a time, I edged away from the call center and into the comparative glamour of freelance writing.
Now, on any given day, I might: talk with my agent on the phone; work on a book proposal; polish an essay.
I must be doing something right. My first book is about to be published. My folks are so proud, they're telling everyone. They want to throw a party for me. My mother, bless her heart, expects to see me touting the tome (a self-help title about health) on "Oprah's Book Club."
Am I applauding my good fortune, mapping out my book tour, taking a media training course for TV interviews and picking out a new dress for my congratulatory soiree? Au contraire. Recently, I applied for waitress jobs. Good, honest work; a darn sight better than a lot of other situations, but almost certain to disappoint my family in light of my education.
The funny thing is, my professional dreams have, more or less, come true. But Only, on the smallest scale. I've attained just enough success to keep me doing what I do. Yet, I'm often - very often - dead broke. (Let's add another item to my list of typical workday activities: arguing with my former credit card company.)
As kids, we all hear the three-wishes story, about how everyone's desires go awry once fulfilled. However, the subtlety is lost on us. Unlike so many of us, I actually get to do what I dreamed of in youth. I make my own hours, work from my living room (OK, my hallway. I forgot to dream about a bigger place), load stacks of books into the car and drive home from the library with my "I'm a real writer" smile. Oh, and I make that library trek and run other errands during weekdays, when the urban world is far less crowded than usual. Once in a while, I even take a walk in the morning and buy a cup of coffee at the local bakery. I love that.
But . . . well: Were you ever struck by the horrible realization that you'd gotten exactly what you wanted - and it was awful?
While I can pen essays and create fairly deft rhymes, I've yet to become rich (or even solvent) as a result. The Internet has made everyone a blogger, and few of us, newspaper readers. Which means there are fewer publications, with less money to spend, than ever before.
Freelance writers' salaries, as anyone in the business can tell you, have not risen appreciably, if at all, in literally decades. Nonagenarian writer Murray Bloom famously said he was paid a dollar a word for his first published article in the 1950s - and bought a Buick with the $850 he earned. Today, of course, writers are still shooting for that same dollar-a-word - which might buy you a year's worth of gas - if you have a fuel-efficient car. (If not for the generosity of my family, in fact, I wouldn't have a car in the first place.)
There's more, of course. While most of us endure various mistreatments at our jobs, there's usually a paycheck in the offing. When you're a freelancer, you have to take abuse for nothing. I've been asked to work for free; assigned endless revisions only to be told "never mind," and been patently insulted. (Not colorfully, either. More like, "We gave the job to someone who had the credentials for it.") As a cube worker, you have to put up with similar misery, of course, but you don't have to do it without payment.
Then, too, self-employment requires the hide of an alligator, the ego of a Trump, and the temperament of a Bobo doll (the toy that pops back up with a smile on its face whenever punched). I often recall a scene from the movie "Tootsie," in which actor Michael Dorsey, played by Dustin Hoffman, auditions for one role after another. Each time, the director says something like, "We want someone younger." To which Dorsey replies, "I can be younger!" "We want someone older." "I can be older!" Finally, he's told, "We want someone . . . else."
Though dogged in my work habits, I'm no good at hustle - a chief requirement, in most cases, for freelance success. Writers can't just be writers. We need to be self-promoters, schmoozers, technophiles. Like Tithonus of Greek mythology, I got what I wanted - but left out the one thing that would make it work. (Tithonus requested, and was granted, eternal life. But neglected to add eternal youth to the bargain.) I wanted a career in freelance writing, but must have forgotten , somehow, to wish for an endless supply of work, and abundant compensation.
So now, the question is, If I had it to do over, would I? And the answer, of course, is . . . I dunno. If you asked me yesterday, I'd have said no. If you ask me tomorrow, I might still. Today, my agent has good news. Nothing definite, of course. But if all should go well with this current project, I could get everything I dreamed of. Almost.
If you want to write about the view from your cube, send e-mail to cube@globe.com.
