Café Culture

I am one of those annoying people who take up loads of room in cafés. I am currently sitting in a relatively busy café at a table for four, but it’s just me. I have my laptop, and my notes, and my enormous bag stuffed with all the detritus that a wandering freelancer needs. My local café does double duty as my office (at least some of the time), so obviously I need to spread out. I do appreciate, though, that my presence is vexing for the wait staff. I will probably also be here for a lengthy period of time, and consume one small coffee. I’m not really a café’s idea of a good time.

At least I’m sensitive to the anxiety of my waitperson. Having been a waitperson myself, a thousand years ago, I do understand. I used to work in a terribly cool café in Glebe, one of the ritzier and more up-itself suburbs of Sydney. Local celebs and the wealthy beautiful crowd used to stop in regularly for their foccacias and macchiatos. Writers would come in and take up multiple tables with their notebooks and big ideas (this is the pre-laptop days), wannabe filmmakers would come in a take up even more room with their big dreams. I was constantly juggling tables and people and armloads of food, trying to squeeze as many fabulous bodies in as I could. It was complicated and annoying, and I often had a hangover while doing it, so many a less-than-savoury word would escape my lips on a busy Saturday morning.

If this café gets any busier, I will move to a smaller table. Or move to another café. I live near Newtown, which prides itself on being one of the hippest café strips of Sydney. If I leave here there will another café within spitting distance and yet another short black and large table awaiting me. I am also not alone. Living in a suburb full of students, freelancers and ne’er-do-well creatives, there are inevitably a large number of our kind taking up lots of room and spending small amounts of money.

I do have a perfectly nice office to do my work in. And, most of the time, I’m in there working. But I’ve incorporated the café culture into my day anyway. I usually drop the kids off at school early, to accommodate their various swatty activities, and then have an hour or so to wait before I can go to the gym. I fill that hour with a bit of work in a café on the way. I have a couple of favourite haunts, although I do tend to be a bit slutty in my café commitments. After gym I head back to my office and my day begins proper, but that little bit of work in between (and the super-strong coffee that goes with it) helps to kick start the process.

I will probably always exploit the café-as-office though, for sentimental reasons. I started freelancing while I was still a student, and shared a house with large numbers of scruffy friends. My tiny bedroom was dedicated to study and other exploratory activities, and there was no way I could do anything serious in the rest of the house. I’d seen the writers and filmmakers coming into my workplace, and I envied them so. I hadn’t yet decided to take myself seriously as either, so I didn’t want my flatmates to see me doing anything as poncy in case they made fun of me.

So, I would take my writing to a café, where nobody knew me and I could spend my days trying to make my words behave themselves. Later, after uni, when I was trying to find work (and myself) I would spend whole days in cafés, making my pitiful dole money last for as long as humanly possible, writing and writing and writing. Most of those words were crap, but after a while the good ones started to pay, as did my other long-held dreams.

I feel a certain pride sitting here now. It’s twenty years since those days, and even though it was hard and sometimes I was very frightened, I have made this freelance life work. I have a creative job that I love, and that I invented for myself. It doesn’t get much better than that.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I might have another coffee. After all, I can afford it these days.

Until next time, happy freelancing.

x Monica

Freelancing for Australian (for Dummies) is available in bookstores and via the Freelance Success website right now – visit http://www.freelancesuccess.com.au/books for more information.

Welcome to the Freelance Freakout

It’s January and I’m having my annual Freelance Freakout. I’ve given it capital letters to make it look more important, but really it is a silly thing and I’m quite mental for going through it every year.

This is how predictable I am. By mid December every year I am quite exhausted. Running a freelance business is of course a job unto itself, as is having three children, and doing both at once can be a little wearying. My exhaustion is justified though because I need to accumulate extra money. This extra money means I can take a long holiday, hopefully as much of the Christmas period and January as possible. Overwork at the end of the year means time off, hanging with my kids for the long hot summer.

So, even though this is a deliberate break and I have work booked for February onwards, I’m now having a panic. Sure there’s work, but not very much at this stage. Not enough to pay the bills. Will I get more?  Should I throw myself into some frenzied marketing? Should I write that next book, just on the off chance, or go back to that unfinished script? I’m thoroughly enjoying my Mum time, and money is not an issue, but still I worry.

The really sad thing about this whole process is that I’ve been doing it now for twenty years. After all this time, surely you would think I’d be brave enough to rest on my laurels, my extensive freelance experience, my super client base, my reputation and my standing in the arts community? Crap. That way, poverty lies. And I’m not that big a wanker.

The truth is that work will come, because work will always come. I know that, but I still freak out. Sadly, if I took that prospect of work for granted, and assumed that gigs and clients were only moments away, I would probably end up very poor indeed. Murphy’s Law for freelancers, perhaps, but after all these years I still don’t think it’s smart or safe to assume.

I just have to stop myself from sending panicky emails to my regular clients, begging them to secure my time for the year. I know they’ll get to me eventually, the bookings will come, and all will be well. I just have to stave off the panic. The last thing I want is to become the freelance equivalent of the desperate girlfriend, sitting and waiting by the phone – or even worse, calling my boyfriend every five minutes just to make sure he still loves me. Pathetic!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to check my email for the fiftieth time today.

Until next time, happy freelancing.

x Monica

Freelancing for Australians (for Dummies) is available in bookstores and via the Freelance Success website right now – visit http://www.freelancesuccess.com.au/books for more information.

The Loneliest Day of the Year

It’s here – that day that so many Australian freelancers dread. Melbourne Cup Day. That one day of the year when my employed friends look forward to a half day of work followed by a copious amount of canapés and bubbly, and for us? Nothing. No change.

For those unfamiliar with the Aussie ways, the Melbourne Cup is the country’s biggest horse race. It’s the equivalent of the Derby, or the Grand National. Almost every Australian business will be effectively closed from lunch time, so the staff can get silly, have a few drinks, and prepare themselves for the big race at 3pm. Bets would have been placed earlier in the day, and after the ponies have done their thing, the drinking will continue long past the point where it’s a good idea. Heads will then be very sore at work tomorrow.

At least in Victoria people get the day off. Here in New South Wales there is no holiday. Of course, for Victorian freelancers it’s a theoretical day off. I’m sure my colleagues there are doing what I would be doing if it was a public holiday here – sleeping in, certainly, but then working on anything where a deadline or a client expectation needed to be met.

There is no freelancer camaraderie on Melbourne Cup day. We do not gather from lunch time onwards in city pubs, sporting a lovely suit or a frilly fascinator. We do not imbibe the bubbles like they’re going out of fashion from the minute the boss cracks open the bottle. We do not get involved in ‘sweeps’ (I didn’t know what a sweep was until I started dating a suit in my early 20s. How would I know what a sweep was? Hello, solo freelancer here! Who am I going to sweep with?).

I have tried to get involved. In years past I would pop down to the TAB, put a flutter on a pony (I would choose based on the colours the jockey was wearing, very scientific). I would sit by myself at 3pm and watch the race. I would cheer for my pony. Alone. I would lose my $5. I would go back to work. Truly, the only thing sadder than not participating in the revelry of the Melbourne Cup is trying to participate on your own.

At least I have the children to fall back on now (not literally, of course). Fortunately I always have something important to do at 3pm on a Tuesday afternoon – pick kids up from school. Actually last year was probably the most fun I’ve ever had on Melbourne Cup day. I organised an impromptu viewing of the race in the kindergarten room, with a few of the kiddies and some willing teachers. We wore silly hats from the dress-ups box and shouted at the ponies. It was pretty good, but not as much fun as the real deal, I expect.

One of these days I’m going to wrangle myself an invite to an office on Melbourne Cup day so I can experience the pleasure that the employed must feel on this day. The joy of only working a half day, the naughty thrill of getting pissed on a Tuesday!  Or, even better, perhaps I’ll organise a gathering of freelancers, and we can take over a pub in our t-shirts and trackie dacks, beers in hand, united in our lack of any other form of unification.

Come on ponies!

Until next time, happy freelancing.

x Monica

Freelancing for Australian (for Dummies) is available in bookstores and via the Freelance Success website right now – visit http://www.freelancesuccess.com.au/books for more information.