Yesterday, I met my first (potential) client. He had scooped me out of the LinkedIn pool, and then gave me a phone call. I must admit I was surprised. After a stalled attempt at freelance writing in late 2015, I was expecting at least a few months of grind, floundering, and awkward promotional calls before people started calling me.
But he seemed genuine, and yesterday we had a chat in a Gloria Jean’s cafe. Not my favourite cafe, so I had an orange juice, and listened. I reckon listening is one of my strengths, and people love to talk about their projects. As the afternoon crowd bustled around us, he outlined his dreams, and I tried to give a clear sense of what I could do for him. It’s a strange waltz: we don’t know each other, and neither of us knows whether to trust the other to deliver.
We both left the meeting positive, and my future-orientated mind started churning with dates, time frames, costs, and all the unknown questions that will assail me many times in the freelance world. Most of all, I feel a sense of lack. Am I really a good writer? Is it all bluster? Can I write 6000 (quality) words in 6 weeks on topics I have not chosen.
Right now, I am sitting down to get some advice from the mob at Write Big, the freelance course I’m chugging through. Then, I’ll nut out a quote for a 6000 word informative manual for young adults, agonise over how much to charge, hit send, and wait.
The Mighty Inkpot 