Thank You, Part VI

Growing up, I thought my father had the world's most consistent routine. Sure, he had been a reporter in St. Louis and Minneapolis. But by the time I entered the world, he had settled into one career: college administrator. He drove the same two miles every morning to the same building and spent 35 years protecting and bolstering the reputation of the same institution. His commute was so automatic that I would sometimes have to gently remind him that my baseball practice was not, in fact, on campus.

I could easily create the illusion that my own life has been different from my father's--full of uncertainty, risk and volatility. The recounting of life is, after all, editing. Go back to 1989, the year I lived abroad, and cut to the 19-year-old me crouched on a rooftop in Jerusalem, listening to gunfire as the Palestinian intifada burns below. Cut to the next summer, as I haul a soggy backpack down Dublin's damp streets, jobless and homeless. Dissolve to a blizzard on the Indiana Toll Road as I white-knuckle it 500 miles to Minnesota in 1993, my five-speed Isuzu I-Mark stuffed to the roof with two guitars, four bags of clothes and one terrified cat. Cut to the morning of Feb. 4, 2008, as I kiss my wife and son goodbye and head through the back door into a new life with a mortgage, no income and no knowledge of the economic apocalypse just around the corner.

All of this would be true, and yet it would also be a horrible lie. The Jerusalem rooftop was half a mile from the real action, and the events I witnessed were orchestrated every day at 2:00 for the CNN cameras--including the rubber bullets. That summer in Dublin? I was with two good friends, we had beds at a youth hostel, and we found a decent flat (and some odd jobs to pay the rent) within a week. The tense drive to Minnesota? Maybe it wasn't exactly a blizzard, and my grandparents awaited on the other end, ready to house me in their cozy suburban house until I found an apartment.

As for that February morning six years ago, I won't say my first day of self-employment wasn't terrifying (it still feels like the only truly risky thing I've ever done). But I've come to feel the secret forces at work that soften the uncertainties. In fact, I've consistently found myself receiving far more from my clients and colleagues than simple economics can account for. There's the agency that gave me my first Conk Creative freelance project--and has given me work nearly every month since. There's the stalwart client who invites me to employee events as if I'm one of the tribe (and the CEO who let me use his cabin for a writing retreat). There's the colleague who threw me into a meeting with two guys who wanted to make a war movie, then had the nerve to trust me to write it. There's the colleague who not only sends me consistent work, but always manages to pick me up when I go through all-too-frequent periods of self-doubt. And there are too many more to mention in one post.

My father passed away unexpectedly in May, and his death illuminated a life far more intricate and complicated than I could have comprehended as a child. When he died, I expected support from friends and family. What I didn't expect were the comforting words and heartfelt cards from people I work with, some of whom even attended the funeral. I've learned quite a bit in six years of self-employment, but perhaps the most valuable is that clients and colleagues can also be friends. They're the reason I always know that deep down, despite some frightening unknowns, the support around me is real. It's fear that's the illusion.