Thank You, Part V

You're probably friends with one of these people. In fact, you might be one of these people. I'm talking about the ones who get in a car, start driving, and then after five minutes say, "So where are we going?"

I used to make fun of people like this. Then GPS and Google Maps came along, and it was clear that instead of them having to adjust to the world, the world was apparently adjusting to them. They actually had it right. There was no reason why you shouldn't be able to get behind a wheel, know nothing about your destination, and still have every reasonable expectation of getting there safely and on time.

By now, the analogy is obvious. Five years ago, I actually did become one of "these people." Not only do I now routinely enter my car without knowing where I'm going; in a bigger sense, this is how life itself now operates. My father, who had the same steady job for 35 years, used to automatically drive toward work even if he was supposed to be taking you to a Saturday Little League game on the other side of town. If there's an opposite problem, I have it. This morning, I got in my trusty 1998 Honda knowing vaguely what I needed to do for the day, but I started driving without knowing exactly where and how I wanted to do it. (Of course, with me this literal "destination angst" really comes down to "which coffee shop do I want to park myself at for the first two hours of the day?" A first-world problem if there ever was one.)

I've learned in five years that some things about the self-employed life will never change. You'll never know, as a former boss used to put it so well, "where the next dollar is coming from." Even next month. But somehow you learn to trust yourself, and that's the hardest part. After five years, I still wake up wondering if I can really write, or even think. I worry that if I'm totally on the wrong track. That I've just gotten "lucky." That my clients might all go away tomorrow. Or, worst of all, that none of my clients are real, and are actually all part of an elaborate joke being perpetuated by Ronaiah Tuiasosopo.

For someone who helps people hone their own messages, I have a hard time explaining a focus that encompasses everything from concepting movies and TV spots to writing brochure copy about spark-ignited gas generator sets and the impact of federal poverty guidelines on health care reform. And I have a hard time relating a business model that involves one office for marketing and two others for screenwriting. I'm not sure what my son thinks that I do, because whatever it is, it's probably never going to show up as an option on some "what do you want to be when you grow up" worksheet he sees in school. All he knows for sure is that I leave around 8 a.m. and come home at 6 p.m. I started doing that on my first day of self-employment, even though I had nowhere to go and no work to do. I thought I did it for him, so that he wouldn't be scared and think that anything was wrong or had changed with Daddy (see: "projection").

What do I know after five years? That I work for good people who do good things and have a bigger perspective and purpose than just selling widgets to make a lot of money. My only rule is that every client I work with has to pass the following test: Are you a basically rational person? Do you listen? Do you have a sense of humor? What I've found is that people who score a "yes" on all three are loaded with lots of other good traits. And that's what I'm so grateful for after five years. That I have that. And when you have that, other things just seem to fall into place.

After driving for 10 minutes this morning, I ended up today at the St. Paul CoCo (a.k.a. my "second" screenwriting office). I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down to write this post. I didn't bill any time or make any money by doing so. But the sun just came pouring through the window, and on the sound system, Paul Westerberg is singing, "I Can't Wait." 'Nough said.