Generally speaking, I’m not a person who does *simple*. If there’s a “keep it simple” path and a “drive yourself and everyone around you nuts” path, I’m inevitably trailblazing the latter. Back in good ‘ol 2009, mere weeks before I discovered I was pregnant with Delilah, I had made the decision to freelance rather than day-job in order to support my screenwriting habit, and despite a lot of tears and stress and transfers from savings I haven’t really looked back. But after the hailstorm of excrement hitting fans this month, and one very. timely. job opportunity, I found myself contemplating a different life path. Would it be so bad to have a job with benefits and a boss where there were tasks and a quitting time?
Sure…the last time I worked in an office I used to spend my morning commute daydreaming about how bad of a car accident I’d have to get in to in order to get that much-needed time off but not be permanently injured. But that was before I had shouldered the burden of self-employment. Working from home is hard. Owning a business is expensive. The novelty of answering emails in your bra wears off. The warm womb of big business was opening it’s lady flower to me and I wanted to climb back in. Bad. (Oh my god, was that the grossest metaphor EVER?)