I have been going through a few days of drought. Blank page, empty heart, nothing to give. I have a few worries that weight on my mind. Not the romantic type of worries that get you inspired to write sad love songs. Rather the annoying worries of not getting paid for the work you have delivered.

This is new to me — I had never been a freelancer before. I was employed, I had rights — I was righteous. Now I am a free electron, I work at my own rhythm and I get paid when I deliver. I love the flexibility it gives me — I had naively thought that this would also give me headspace to write and create on the side. Except, with the flexibility comes the uncertainty…

I have taken on this one project that is not paying much, but that is very atypical and takes me to unknown territories. I wanted to quit when I found a second gig that paid much better and was safer — but I liked the first one it so I decided to keep both. Slowly the novelty made place to the reality: although I was in fresh waters, the temperature was boiling and it would all evaporate in no time. As fascinating as the project is, this company is a mess, the work is numbing and the probability of getting paid is low — very low. Fuck.

I would like to stop — now. But I have this professional conscience that makes me go on. What am I sacrificing myself for? I am surprised and disappointed at my reaction — this goes deeper than this one occurrence. Why do I feel the urge to please others, when clearly it affects me in a very negative way? I thought I was getting rid of this bad habit — it’s right there though, eating me up and hurting my family at the same time. Fuck.

That’s two “fuck” in the same text — something is clearly wrong. New grounds are not always good to explore. You have to know when to back down — and this is my cue.

Mama, wife, yogi, dreamer. Writer in disguise.