 So it was September of last year when I formed my LLC and officially launched my freelance writing and media consulting business. I freelanced as a sideline for about six months before I was able to quit my corporate job and become a full-time entrepreneur.
It was the single best career move I ever made. I. Love. My. Job. Since this month is my official one-year anniversary, I’ve been doing a little reflecting on how things have gone so far. It hasn’t all been sunshine and roses, but for the most part, it has gone much better than I could have ever imagined. One of the smartest things I did in preparation for starting a business was informal market research. In other words, I asked a shit-ton of questions, specifically of other writers and consultants who are making a really good living working for themselves. Their advice was priceless, and I continue to put much of it into practice every day. In recent months, several of my friends have taken notice of my success (not to mention my unabashed joy) since going out on my own, and they have asked me to share how I did what I did, and continue to do what I do. Since similar counsel was given so freely to me, I am more than happy to pay it forward.
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 If you don’t know how to do something, find someone who does. Then ask that person for help.
This sounds ridiculously simple, I know, but it took me a lifetime to learn. Asking for help is uncomfortable for many — probably even most — grown folk. I used to believe that it was a very unattractive sign of weakness. I needed help, therefore I was needy. If I was not totally independent, then I was dependent, and that made me a lesser person. To truly earn the badge of adulthood, I had to know all the answers. Or some such bullshit. Thank God I came to my senses. I’ve been on a journey of self-discovery in recent years, and one of the key tenets of that journey has been learning humility. When I started my process of reinvention five years ago, it was pointed out to me that my self-concept had historically swung from one extreme to the other, sometimes on a daily basis. I was either up on my self-righteous high horse, better than everyone around me, or I was a piece of garbage hell bent on self-flagellation. There was no in between. (Turns out that the “in between” is where serenity lies.)  I joke a lot about my propensity toward OCD. I freely admit that I am a hyper-organized control freak. Detailed. Particular. Meticulous. Ahem, anal retentive.
Let me go ahead and offer a disclaimer so none of my readership (all six of you) gets offended. I am aware that Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is a medically recognized condition that can be debilitating to its sufferers. I understand that it can, and often does, impede activities of daily living. The acronym is used flippantly (and usually inaccurately) to describe nutty people like me who write to-do lists just to cross crap off of them. But mental illness is no joke. I have several people in my life who have been ravaged by acute anxiety, bi-polar disorder, OCD, ADHD and various other brain synapse irregularities. In order to function normally, they require medication, counseling or behavior modification (sometimes all three). I have nothing but respect and empathy for them and their circumstances. Yes, I am very grateful that I am not afflicted with any of the aforementioned mental illnesses, but that is not going to stop me from lobbing the occasional self-deprecating grenade at some of my own extremist tendencies.  In less than 10 days, I’ll hit a milestone that officially will launch me into a brand new decade – my 40s. I will celebrate my 41st birthday on July 31.
Over 40. In my 40s. 40-something. Remember when we were kids, and that sounded so old? Yeesh. A lot has changed for me in the past year, and all of it has been good. And most of the changes have been deliberate, which is beyond cool. Last year’s 40th b-day was a big deal for me psychologically. Timing-wise, the second act of my marriage had just ended. The stress of that experience had literally sucked the life out of me, and I found myself at a crossroads. I’d been taking steps to improve my mental and spiritual well-being for a few years already – which is the ONLY reason I survived the end of the aforementioned relationship without medication -- but I had been neglecting my physical health for entirely too long. I’d also been limiting myself in other areas of my life, including my career. So on July 1st of 2012, I looked in the mirror and gave the sad, sallow 39-year-old in the reflection a stern lecture. I said, simply: “Girl, you have GOT to get your shit together.” And so I did.  I’ve had a snarled ball of anxiety in my chest since last Wednesday. It’s rare that I get tied up in knots over anything these days. I’m more laid back than I’ve ever been in my whole life, which makes the issue that’s got me going nutty even more exasperating. It’s been effing with my serenity in a major way, and frankly, this will not stand, man.
What has got me all out of sorts, you ask? Well, the bane of my existence is a mandated, and very untimely, modification in my technological capabilities. In other words, I am being forced to change my e-mail address.  UofL champs with Ferdinand's Ball founders Something that’s really astonished me about my new freelance gig is the amount of interest I’ve had in my PR and media relations services.
See, when I first envisioned going out on my own, I assumed that my only marketable skill — y’know, the one that would make money — was my writing. I mean, hello? I am a trained print journalist, so this seems like a pretty natural conclusion, right? Yeah, I pictured myself in my home office, dressed in yoga pants and a ponytail, tippy-tapping away on my MacBook Pro keyboard, completing assignments for corporate marketing departments, advertising and web agencies, industry blogs and local publications. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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