I cried the other day like an asshole.
Not because someone died, and not because I’m getting my period (there you go, boys, you squirming yet?), but because every day from 5 o’clock in the morning to 8 o’clock in the morning, I scalpel out my insides and then put them on display—kind of like that Bodies museum, which, for the record, I’ve totally been to.
While it sounds like I’m giving myself the world’s grossest biopsy (TAKE THAT, CELLULITE), I am doing nothing of the sort, because my scalpel is my keyboard, and my insides are my thoughts.
I am writing a memoir.
Which, by the way, sounds totally fucking annoying. For the love of christ, everybody’s writing a memoir. *rolls eyes*
The fact of the matter is that memoir is an annoying word, because you’ve got to have some level of fat-headed self-importance to say something like that out loud. Anytime you’ve ever heard anyone say, “I’m writing a memoir,” you inevitably mock in your head, “Well that will be riveting…” Unless you don’t actually think that and I’m the only jerk in the room. Ahem.
So maybe I should decide to call it something else. Perhaps I’ll say I’m writing a novel (penning a novel feels like a respectable thing to be doing, doesn’t it?) and then just make it one big fucking surprise. It’ll be all: Just kidding! This actually happened!
I’m also going to be sure to tell everyone I’m penning things. Maybe I’ll pen everything, from now on.
Thanks for the text, darling—I’ll pen you one later. (Which sounds like a fantastic dirty joke.)
Shall we pen that sales page for you, dear?
Let’s pen some tweets, shall we?
This is getting wildly off tangent. Allow me to fluff my skirt and start again.
The fact is, I’m penning this—ahem—novel ev
Because, you see, in order for the story to have a character arc, it’s got to begin at a place and time when I wasn’t so…certain. At a place and time when I wasn’t so strong. At a place and time when I had no idea how I was going to make it all work. In fact, as many of you know, at one point many years ago I even found myself sleeping in a Kmart parking lot.
So in writing this book, I’ve unearthed a lot of old scary feelings, situations, fears. Every morning from 5am to 8am, I’m not just remembering what those times were like—I’m feeling what they were like.
:: When I started my first copywriting business and it failed.
:: When I knew I desperately wanted to write, and turn it into a career I loved—but had no idea how.
:: When I would have only dreamed of being paid thousands and thousands of dollars to design words together in ways that made a reader give a damn.
:: And when I was tired of sitting on my rump waiting for someone to give me an opportunity—and I decided to start taking them, instead.
These feelings were what inspired my current 4-week mentorship program, Sentences & Money, for aspiring professional writers who want to stop screwing around and start making real money.
I cringe remembering when I’d considered writing About.com articles for $5 a pop.
I remember setting up profiles on different websites to work as a freelancer and hope someone would think my profile was the best…and hire me.
I remember submitting travel articles to the New York Times, hoping to be “discovered.” (They were all rejected, by the way.)
And, most of all, I remember having to resort to writing tutoring to make ends meet. Because at least I could make $20/hour. Even if I did have to drive all the way to the Cherry Hill Barnes & Noble in New Jersey.
The problem was that, although I had a great deal of experience in marketing & sales, that experience was working for mid and large publishing companies who had large marketing budgets. Give me a budget, and I could get you one hell of an ROI. But once I left to work for myself, I realized that I had no idea how to market myself without any money.
Uh oh, right?
So, I did what everybody else did. I scraped. I scrimped. I hoped. And I wrote my ass off. But even on my most profitable month that very hard first year in 2006, I might have been lucky to pull $2,500.
And yet, when I’d deduct all the bills—the student loans, the rent, the car payment, the gynecologist visit—I’d still be left over with nearly nothing.
This wasn’t going to do. I was NOT going back to that life.
If you’ve been hanging out here with me on the blog for any length of time, you’ve heard me talk about growing up in small Pennsylvania town, living in a trailer. You’ve heard me talk about the mornings I would sneak around the block so the other kids wouldn’t see me going home to the trailer. You’ve heard that my mom and I didn’t own a car until I was a teenager. You’ve heard how motivating this was for me.
Since, I had gone on to make a successful career for myself in Philadelphia, having a taste of the good life, and even building a new construction home, complete with granite countertops and vaulted ceilings and fireplaces and finished basements.
Which is why I refused to let my new business—my dream (and I don’t use that word lightly)—take me down. I was determine to go up. But, how?
I knew there must be a way. I knew I was good at what I did—but that was all I knew. I didn’t know how to find clients. I didn’t know how to court clients. I didn’t know how to sell myself. I didn’t know how to draft a proposal, or what kinds of things I should have in a service agreement. I had no idea what to do with my accounting, or that I should even have a separate bank account. And I certainly didn’t know the other stuff that came afterward, like managing client expectations, running projects, keeping myself accountable, and making sure I knocked it out of the park so I could continue to build my reputation as a baller shot caller.
In short, I was playing amateur hour. But I needed to go pro. Because no client wants to hire an amateur.
Forget if you’re a writer or not–have you ever started something and felt like you’re flailing around like a pathetic little desperate clingy octopus in a pool of oil?
It can be really intimidating.
(Not the octopus—feeling like one.)
It can stall you out. It can rust your hopes. It can play games with your head.
And it can take everything from you, if you’re not careful.
I think being an amateur can be a beautiful thing—if you’re careful not to let your own lack of knowledge take you out. Because being an amateur can also be really dangerous.
It’s that incredibly sensitive time period when you aren’t sure about anything, and therefore not necessarily committed to anything, either.
You wing it.
You “trust it to work out.”
You figure you’ll get the hang of it with time.
And in doing so, you sucker punch yourself right in the gut.
Because while you’re taking it easy, other people are hustling you right off the table.
Because the more edge they get, the less you’ve got.
And make no mistake—running your own business is a competition.
BUT—it doesn’t have to feel like one when you’re the one running hot at the top.
And the easiest way to the top? Is to grab the closest rope and GET CLIMBING.
Sentences & Money is a rope. And here’s me, standing right here at the top of the cliff (sweating my ass off like Zorro over here), heaving it over the edge to you.
(If you aren’t a writer, don’t fret, send me hate mail, or egg my house. There are opportunities coming for you, too.)
When you don’t know, you better call somebody.
Because not calling somebody certainly isn’t going to get you anywhere fast.
Even I’ve got a book writing coach in my corner.
And now that registration for Sentences & Money is open?
I certainly hope you’ll ask me to be in yours.
After all, who else will talk about their period, scalpels, cellulite, octopi (oo, plural), The New York Times, trailers, penning novels, sucker punches AND business, all at once, all before for happy hour? There’s even a middle finger icon in the protégé chat room.
…Which, by the way, I’m totally going to use for the next person who tells me they’re writing one of those ridiculous memoirs.
You know, if the scalpel doesn’t get them, first.
The post Is Your Business Flailing Around Like a Pathetic Little Desperate Clingy Octopus in a Pool of Oil? appeared first on the middle finger project.