Five years ago today, I sat down at the kitchen table in our newly rented flat by the beach in Brighton, Adelaide and started one of the scariest things I’ve ever done.
Going freelance was never something I’d planned to do. Ever since I decided on publishing as a career back in school, I had totally envisaged myself working my way up the editorial ladder in a publishing house, not expecting an easy path, but at least with the surety of a salary at the end of the month, irrespective of what had happened the month prior. But then, we decided to take a leap and travel to the other side of the world for an adventure of a lifetime, which meant I stepping away from that dream path into something quite unknown, in a country far away from home.
When I started my freelance business, I had no idea if I’d have any clients at all. I thought I’d get the occasional job from my old publishers, for sure, but scaling up to a point where freelance work would match my old income, if not more? No way! I had savings, and this was just meant to be a year out, and any income would supplement our travels.
But somehow, to my amazement, it took off. I worked on some very different jobs – my first publisher work was with Mills & Boon – and with some fabulous authors, who’ve now gone on to reach new heights themselves – bestselling Simon McCleave and Ned Kelly Award-nominated Jo Dixon, I’m looking at you. But this was all part of the adventure, and great, it was working out. But once we got back from Australia, it was time to get back to reality and find a traditional publishing job again.
Then the pandemic happened.
