Actual Things People Say When You're Self Employed

Reflecting on a conversation with my mum last week - who has a habit of calling me in the middle of the working week - I realised, I'm frequently on the receiving end of well-meaning comments because I'm self-employed.

Not that I'm keeping track, but these are some actual things people have said to me in the two years I've been self-employed. 

Many of these comments have come from close family members (not just my mum!).

Anyone who isn't self-employed, and never has been, generally has no idea what it means to run your own business. 

Even people who have been self-employed don't really understand what you do because you don't have a shop front, employ other people or rent an office somewhere - therefore it's not a real business...



There's some absolute classics here...

• "What do you do at home all day?" (Mum said this last week on a Tuesday afternoon phone call!)

• "I don't know what you do, but I'm sure you're very good at it."

• "Oh, I assumed you had kids and you were doing this to stay busy while they're at school?"

• "You just drink coffee with your friends all day."

• "But you don't work many hours, you're not employed full time, are you?"

• Because I do consultancy work to help businesses improve their writing... "Have you given up writing books now then?"

• "But you don't sell enough books, do you? No one makes money from selling books."

• "You mean, people have actually bought your books?"

• "Why don't you get yourself a nice little part time job?"

• "So, you're unemployed then?"

• A caller comes to the door... "Day off today, then?"

• "It's nice that your husband supports you while you pursue your hobbies."

My answer to all these is usually an incredulous look, quickly corrected into a polite smile and an, "Erm, well I run a business!"

What about you? 

 

Recognise any of these?

 

If you're self-employed; what well meaning, ignorant or just plain patronising things have people said to you? 

                                                          

 

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Encounter on the Platform - A Short Story

A small moment, waiting for a train, in the cold at Bedminster Station today sparked this story. 

Small stories are everywhere... 

 

  

Encounter on the Platform 

I love these crisp, still, winter mornings… leaving the house in the dark, not so much.

    As I make my way across the platform to claim a seat in the shelter, there’s only a scattering of people at this quiet, suburban station at such an ungodly hour. 

    Just as my spot on the bench warms up, I’m forced to shuffle over and make room for one more. A small woman, she’s dressed head to toe in black, hooded by a chunky knitted hat, face pallid in the blue light of approaching dawn.

    She sits close, so close we share the same pocket of icy air. She reaches down into her ample handbag. I expect her to take out a phone - all the other commuters are in their e-bubbles - instead, she takes out a small, battered, hardback book. Curious, I peer over her shoulder. The typeface cramped on the tissue paper thin pages. 

    Psalms.

    Her lips flutter as she absorbs and silently recites the words. She raises her eyes ahead to the tree-line, my gaze follows. 

    A watercolour wash of pink seeps up the trunks. 

    She drops the book into her bag, an urgency in the motion. Next, she takes out a small tube of what looks like hand cream. I notice the number 50 shouting from the label. 

    She squirts a liberal dollop of the cream into her hand and fiercely rubs it onto her cheeks, along her neck, and over her hands, coating every inch of her exposed flesh.

    The rails rattle and whirr, lights slowly swell on the horizon. Phones are stowed, seats abandoned, what seemed like a sparse gathering of passengers, morphs into a thick snake along the yellow line.

    The lady in black gets up and lifts her bag. It’s only then I notice she’s dropped the bookmark from her New Testament. I bend down to pick it up.

    “Excuse me?”

    She turns, our eyes connect.

    “You dropped this!”

    I hold out the bookmark, blink twice, not sure I’ve read the logo on the bookmark correctly: ‘Nosferatu Anonymous’.

    She thanks me with a nod, a soft smile drawing her lips away from startlingly serrated teeth.

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Conquering Creative Constipation

There's always some sense of being repressed, deep in your forever-questioning brain when you are a creative.

I say 'a creative' like we're a species unto ourselves. 

I believe that all humans are naturally, innately creative - you just have to spend a couple of minutes watching small children play as they make sense of the world as proof of this.

I wrote a blog on this 'You're More Creative than You Think' last year and I also blogged on 20 Ways to Keep The Creative Juices Flowing.

When I say 'a creative' I mean people who identify themselves as creative and who perhaps make a living doing something conspicuously creative: visual arts, music, sculpture, design, photography, writing etc. These are the things people usually associate with 'creativity' and will say "I'm not creative" because these forms of self-expression don't resonate.

Perhaps your creativity is in the kitchen? Or in finding ways to entertain your children? Or building complex spreadsheets to solve a problem? Essentially, creativity is how 'problem solving' manifests itself. Any by-product or solution that you 'create' to overcome an obstacle is a form of creativity.

My creativity comes at me from many places. I go through peaks and troughs in the way I express myself. 

Having published The Sheridan and Blake books in such quick succession - 4 books in 3 years - I've struggled to get back to creative writing.

I've had the concept for my next novel - a new series of books - floating around in my head since I first met 'Katarina Orlov' defending Tom and Sasha from an assassin at a tube station when I wrote 'Gabriel's Game, Part 1: The White Queen'.

I knew then that the sassy, bi-sexual, multilingual, freelance finder and single mum with the black cat tattoo on her back - Kat - would be my next star!

I decided to designate August as my month to bash out the first draft of that book 'Finding The Scream' and blogged about it HERE.

Here's the blurb for the latest book (I managed to extract that from myself last week!):

Alas, my month of writing wasn't to be, when a flurry of bookings and jobs landed in my inbox and screeched from my voicemail. 

I couldn't even manage the two tips I offer to anyone facing a similar dilemma:

1) Build writing into your routine

2) Bum in chair, write!


I call this inability to conjure the muse 'Creative Constipation' - the discomfort and frustration of being blocked up!

Last week I had a breakthrough. I did two of the things on my list of 20  ways to get those creative juices flowing:

no. 14) Hang out with creative people

no. 18) Do something you've never done before


I went to a 'Boost Your Natural Confidence' event hosted by the lovely Hils Crisp and I went to a 'Creativity Circles' event hosted by the wonderful Mags MacKean as part of Bristol Festival of Literature.

Hils' event took us through some techniques to discover our confidence triggers. 

I was heartened by how open the other people in the group were, considering we were complete strangers, we all shared our confidence challenges openly and it was great to see that we all recongnised so many of them. I came away feeling invincible!

The next morning I took out my free writing notebook and let the ideas pour from me. 

Later in the day I went to Mags' event, already feeling rejuvenated, the creativity circle provoked a surprisingly emotional reaction.

Now, just to get one thing straight, I'm pretty cynical about anything that's too 'hippy-dippy' - the kind of mumbo-jumbo that makes my eyes roll because there is always a danger that if you are too open minded, your brain might just fall out! 

On the face of it, what I'm about to share may seem to contradict that. However, I've known Mags for many years, I like and respect her so, although I wasn't sure what to expect, I trust in Mags' approach. 

There was plenty of closed-eyes deep-breathing. There were stones to pass our doubts and fears into. Then we went looking for our tree - something solid, something we could imagine, something we could go back to, something that could embody our creativity.

I had a vivid image of my tree. It was enormous, broad, I could only just span my arms across it, heavy with fruit.

Without really realising what was happening, I shed tears of relief at finding and knowing the tree, a voice in the back of my brain whispering: "I see you!"

As the tears settled in the hollow of my throat, I imagined them seeping into the pounded earth and nourishing the roots of the tree. My tree. Laden with fruits of soft, juicy peach and crisp, zingy apples. I bite down on the resistant globe of an apple and feel the satisfaction of that crunch between my teeth. My apple, from my magic 'Papple tree'.Well, I guess there's no doubt in my mind now how powerful our imaginations can be!





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