People keep telling me freelancing is hard but I've never been more content
I’m sitting in the coffee shop opposite my apartment tapping gleefully on the keypad of my laptop. Two hours ago I received an email from an editor of a mainstream magazine — one I had fantasized about writing for — expressing interest in commissioning my work. It was the moment I had been working up to since I fell in love with Girl Talk magazine as a preteen girl. But I never seriously believed I could have a career in writing, even throughout my Creative Writing degree at twenty-one.
I had dropped out of university because I failed my second year but I continued bumbling along through life — each year getting slightly more depressed and slightly more drunk — swaying not-so merrily from one dead end job to another. I settled on working as a manager of a camping shop in a tourist town known for its stunning coastlines and wild partying scene, both of which I immersed myself in. I tried to enjoy my higher wage and the camaraderie of my colleagues but I knew I would never be passionate about selling waterproof coats, no matter how many times my taped-seamed jacket kept me dry.
I needed to write, to conjure up words like the sentence was a rabbit, the page my black top hat and so I began to rigorously research how to become a freelance writer. A thick depression had clouded my life for a long time but the day I broke free was the day I decided: I’m going to give it a shot. I signed up to a course called How to Write a Pitch and poured every word I could muster into a personal blog, eager to build my skills and learn the ins and outs of the industry.
When my first mainstream piece was published, I was thrilled. It felt bittersweet pouring out my secrets onto the page knowing that my story would now be read by millions of people. I felt helpless as a depressed person with no drive or direction, but writing was the thing that could simultaneously engross me in my struggle and catapult me far beyond it. I was told that my words touched people and so I kept writing. My magic moment sparkled like a shimmering reflection on a lake, but it was after that “published” moment when I realised, only in the depths of the water where I could drown myself in the process of writing a story, was I truly glitter.
More writing projects came; I was proofreading and editing books, writing for magazines, companies and I even launched my own writing course. I started using Twitter (no one calls it X, let’s be honest) to share my work and make #JournoRequests for case studies in the pieces I was writing: Twitter is the place to be for journalists looking to expand their knowledge, clientele and sources. I was on a high, writing intricate essays which stimulated parts of my brain that had laid vacant for too long, and then came the month that I doubled my previous monthly manager salary! I had reached so many of my goals in such a short space of time, who knew all I needed was the burning desire to never handle camping gear again.
But that was when I started to notice it: at first it was the occasional tweet here and there warning freelancers to watch out for unfair pay and CEO’s with no respect for their suppliers. As I read on, I discovered that it was far more sinister. I was reading twitter threads, articles and comments of the same problem daily; layoffs, competition, the tearing down of huge companies with media teams that could fill up a stadium. Journalists were being replaced by TikTok influencers and many people were no longer consuming written content. The industry I had been desperate to be a part of was throwing people away like loaves of stale uneaten bread.
I couldn’t help but wonder if this would eventually be my fate; years of working myself up only to be dropped from a great height by a greedy manager with no artistic awareness. But I loved this work; remote from my favourite cafe, sipping theatrically on my iced coffee whilst flitting between an array of creative projects, Ray Bradbury’s "you must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you” quote on the wallpaper of my screen. The reports of the freelancing industry I kept on reading didn’t fit with my current reality; it made me feel like I had entered an alternate universe where visionaries and poets were a looking glass back to a black and white past. How has the state of the world grown so dire that even the artists have grown tired of their art? Ongoing wars, cost of living, climate disasters, obsessive consumerism, wealth greed — these are precisely the reasons that we need art to exist.
I’m desperate for romance, the spark of inspiration before an emerging story, the fervent intrigue of an undiscovered narrative, the unspoilt flexibility and freedom that comes from working for yourself. All of these were things I wanted — needed — and relied on to keep me motivated. This lifestyle, in under two years, has changed the fabric of my being: I’m no longer depressed, I prepare my avocado toast for breakfast with a dash of lemon — the perfect precursor for a day of creative freedom. I am alive because the smell of waxy synthetic fabric in a rundown camping store no longer greets my nostrils. I am alive because I have a career in writing.