The glorious life of a freelancer

Our story begins on a stormy October evening, when our protagonist – who we shall refer to as Bob – sat on the edge of her bed plaiting her hair.

“Do you know what, mother?” she said to the wall on which she had drawn a face using lipstick, “You look like HELL! No, I mean you’ve really let yourself go. You should go get some eyebrows or something.”

Then, thoughtfully, picked up an eye pencil and carefully drew a monobrow above two beady lipstick eyes. Stepping back she examined the fruit of her labour then, after a lingering pause, thickened the brow.

“Mother, I think I’m going to go into freelance writing,” she announced changing the subject.

An ominous silence fell over the room.

THUNDER! LIGHTNING!

The wall smiled lopsidedly, but said nothing.

“Fuck you! I don’t need your support anyway!” Bob shrilled, knocking over a wardrobe and flinging herself out of the room, through a dark hallway and into an adjacent study.

THUNDER! LIGHTNING!

Muttering madly under her breath, she turned the computer on and began to write.

Years passed, the ice caps melted and yet she stayed unwavering, ever typing, ever muttering. Her hair was no longer braided, deep dark circles had set in under her eyes and her spine had twisted into a Dowager’s Hump (it’s a real thing, you know!).

One day, many seasons later, she let out a yelp and scampered back into her bedroom. Then, looking at a spot on the wall near her lipstick drawing – for it was very unbecoming indeed – she triumphantly announced, “Mother! I’ve finally made some money!”

And that’s more or less how I became a freelancer.