The World Renewed: A New Way to Work (Again)

What do you do when things are hopeless? You lose your job through no fault of your own. And at first it’s not a problem. Why? Well, because you can write. So you figure that you’ll earn your living by the gift of the gab. After all, it’s something you have had since you were a kid. But then things don’t exactly happen the way you have expected. For one thing, the week after your last commencement you are diagnosed with cancer. You think “This is it. I am going to die.” But things don’t work out that way either. Although the chemotherapy almost kills you. You survive. But then you become diabetic. And by that time your insurance is gone. You do manage to write a book, and it’s not a bad book, but it’s self-published, and it doesn’t sell. Seems that people don’t really want to read about movies. Your labor of love just sits there, not on book shelves, just in electronic limbo.

By this time you are drinking all day every day. Despair has invaded your privacy. And you try to dull it with the fog that whiskey brings on. You keep watching movies. And you keep eating and sleeping and then drinking again. And so it goes, day in and day out. Nights become days and days become nights, and never the twain shall meet. You are in an ongoing stupor. You have this talent, and it’s not getting you anywhere. You take courses in copywriting, but you don’t hit the pavement to look for those high-paying jobs. You just sit there like some lonesome teen who sits by the phone waiting for the phone to ring. Nothing happens. You do nothing, so nothing can happen. You recall Milton’s famous line, “They also serve who only stand and wait.” But you are not even standing. And you are not blind. Or aren’t you? None are so blind as those that won’t see.

And so it goes, until your only option is suicide. Or bankruptcy. So you opt for bankruptcy. And the irksome process begins. You hire the lawyer. You borrow the money from a generous ex-girlfriend. And you proceed. Eventually it’s all done. No more debts, but no more credit cards either. Only Social Security, which isn’t all that secure – or social, for that matter. You are alone, alone with what you are. You still have the talent for writing, and you still make stabs at it. And as time goes by, you begin to write short stories. On an off. In about a year or so, you have enough to publish them. They are love stories, wonderful love stories, but they also just sit in electronic limbo. Then something happens. An old friend comes along and recommends you to a slick local magazine. And you go to the editorial offices and get a nice assignment. And you write it and send it in, and they like it, accept it for publication, and even publish it. Eventually a check arrives, but it’s not going to make you rich, that’s for sure. One swallow does not a summer make.

Then one day it happens again. You hear about Elance. And you visit their site. And decide to try your hand at it. You sign on. Create your profile, and get your 20 connects, and start bidding. You finally luck out. Get your first job almost immediately: to ghostwrite an e-book associated with weddings. Happy times are here again. And happy words follow. And you write them. With jokes and toasts. And you get paid. It’s like manna from heaven. And you are in.

But after that first job things don’t go as easily as in the beginning. Has your beginner’s luck run out? You keep buying more connects, until you have 90 to work with, and even those begin to dwindle fast enough. So you start your new mood swings. Up and down. Up and down. And even hit the bottle on occasion. You know that that won’t do, so you keep on bidding for jobs on Elance. And then a few more come in. And you even make friends with some fellow writers, quite by accident. One is one of Elance’s top 100 writers. He gives you some advice. It’s pretty commonsensical, but the kindness he shows you is beyond the call of duty. So the sense that the world could be renewing itself for you comes back.

And before you know it, you are booked solid. But not all the jobs you get are to your liking. You realize that you have been bidding frantically on a lot of them, like some madman chasing the rainbow at the end of which he expects to find the proverbial pot of gold. Still, you are working now, and checks keep coming in. Not large and still fairly far in between, but they come, they do come. And you suddenly realize that all the work you are doing is good for you. Sure, you no longer have the leisure you used to have, even if leisure is the basis of culture, as a German scholar had once stated and even wrote a book about it. But you know damn well that you didn’t make good use of your leisure. You frittered your time away. And drank too much.

Finally, it dawns on you. This is really a new life, even a new dawn in the twilight of yours. Like the title of your short story collection has it: the heart ages, but it doesn’t grow old. Neither does the mind. In fact, this can really be said of the whole shebang. The heart and mind and soul remain young in the aging body, and when that aging body has something meaningful to do, it too gets young again – in spirit, if not in fact.

And you begin to thank your lucky stars. Elance, you say. A portmanteau word for “electronic freelance.” And the metaphor of the title lying just underneath the surface of “freelance writer” comes out to tease you with its suggestiveness. It’s like in your old age you have become an errant knight. And you even reflect on the ambiguity of "errant" – is it wandering or erring? But you smile. You no longer care. So you say, in your heart of hearts: Thank you Elance! You saved my life!

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