I thought, after, about that moment, over and over, what would have happened if I had simply taken his arm and gone home with him. But, like Lot’s wife, I had to look back at the familiar, at the river. I liked to walk beside it in the daylight. “Look at the moon,” I whispered. Clouds streamed across its face. The wind carried a scent of dry leaves and frost and distant smoke. Something on the air, something on the way.
I’ve been working as a freelance writer since 2011. It’s hard work because every article has to be perfect by the AP Stylebook. It’s frustrating because you can’t please some clients, and because you have to spend years on short, low-paying articles, and it seems that you’re just wasting your time.
I kept working. I kept taking little articles for websites for exterminators, parking lot paving companies, and companies that install walk-in bathtubs. I’m not denigrating that work. The business owners needed well-written content to bring in clients, and the clients needed to learn about the businesses. And I feel good about writing anything that helps seniors or people with disabilities, because I’ve spent so much of my life caring for older relatives with physical problems or Alzheimer’s and dementia.
I applied for hundreds of jobs through websites, the local newspaper, and just walking into businesses. I’m 44. I’ve been out of the workforce since 2004. My ex-husband wouldn’t allow me to work. I know that’s the main reason that I can’t even get my foot in the door for an interview.
I kept freelancing, and over the last six months, I’ve gotten two major clients and one small but regular client. My two major clients are repped by the same editor. After I wrote, oh, 20 articles for him, he offered to double my rate of pay if I would agree to be available for 20-30 articles a month. He asked if he could add me to a team of writers for a particular subjects because he wants his best writers on that team. He sent me eight more articles today.
I can work from home. I can work whenever I want as long as I meet the deadline. There are disadvantages to working at home: you don’t have co-workers, you get used to living in your PJs, you get interrupted by family members. But there are advantages: no commute, no annoying co-workers, no meetings.
Freelance writing is feast or famine. Even with these great clients, I sometimes go weeks without work. If you freelance, you have save your money. Your “boss” tells you that a client has shut down their ad campaign. You get depressed. Then one morning you wake up to a week’s worth of work, and the client has decided to restart their campaign.
I looked at all the orders, and I know that the client likes my work, and I know that they will buy all my work, and I started crying. Not because of the time the work will take (two-four hours per article) but what if I fail this time? What if I do all the work, and the client decides they don’t like something?
What if I screw it up and lose the client?
There’s no job security these days, but I’m in a particularly tenuous position. Many, many days I wish that I could just stand behind a cash register in a department store eight hours a day.
That’s not my job. I applied for this job, got it, and I’m building a career. I just have to keep believing that I can do it.
Is the curse of the last WordPress update lifted?
I have half a dozen decks of Tarot and oracle cards. I’m no expert, and at this point I wouldn’t feel comfortable giving a reading for anyone else. If I had to recommend one, it would be Les Vampires by Jasmine Becket-Griffith (art) and Lucy Cavendish (guidebook.) I just did a reading for myself and it was frighteningly accurate. I brought up underlying issues that weren’t part of my question.
Treat your cards with respect. Keep them in a neat place. Use a special cloth to cover the surface where you will lay out the cards. It doesn’t have to be expensive or occult-themed. I use a navy blue nightstand cover that I bought at a chain store. You could use a piece of fabric that’s important to you, like an old quilt, or you could buy a small table cloth. Some spreads take up a lot of room.
You can light a candle if you like when you’re reading your cards. You should turn off the electronics so you won’t be distracted. And you should keep a journal, recording the dates of your readings, the decks, spreads, cards, and note if a card was reversed. Reread the guidebook interpretations over the next few days. Study the cards. There are hidden meanings in the interpretations and the art. If one card in particular speaks to you, set it up somewhere that you can see it every day, and leave it until you do your next reading.
I had been a witch since I was fifteen. One of my parents worked every weekend, most often, both. My grandfather just said church wasn’t for him. He spent Sundays in his woodshop. My sisters and I got stuck at the old, musty Methodist Church between my grandmother and my aunt. I always ended up beside my grandmother, which I thought was rather stupid because Paige was so young and my aunt always had to carry her downstairs to the nursery. Reading fantasy novels led me to the folklore shelves in the library, and on the other side of those shelves were the books on religion. The Spiral Dance had a red cover and was like a forbidden fruit in a garden of dry and bitter things. I stood reading it until my legs started to ache. I took the book to a quiet room and sat in a cubicle, reading, reading, until a librarian tapped on the glass door. The library was closing. It was almost five on Saturday afternoon. I took the book home and copied much of it by hand into a notebook. I still had the notebook.
I hid my first altars in plain sight by using dollar store figurines as goddesses and other cheap knickknacks, even Christmas decorations, to decorate the altars. My mother thought nothing of my using my grandmother’s old cut-glass salt and pepper shakers as vases for violets and other little wildflowers. My grandmother gave me a little allowance for vacuuming and dusting her house every week. I used it to buy “witchcraft” books that I hid at the bottom of my hamper, the one place my sisters would never look. My mother made us do our own laundry. She laughed long and hard when I fessed up as an adult.