When I started my freelance business, I assumed it would be tough. It’s a lousy economy, an impossible time for aspiring writers and an all-around bad idea for a perfectionist who hates making mistakes. I thought trusting God in this decision meant persevering through mistakes, rejection and dried-up bank accounts.

But I was wrong.

I have made mistakes, and I will continue to do so (hopefully my clenched teeth, balled fists and the pitter-patter of a heart in overdrive will ease up). But the rejection has been overshadowed by opportunity! I’ve had referrals, inquiries and contracts to sign. I love the work that people are actually paying me to do! My days aren’t filled with scavenging for paid gigs; now I’m beginning to think about being strategic with my time and energy, and only following up on jobs that make sense for me.Trusting God will inevitably mean persevering when things get uncomfortable or even painful. But right now, trusting Him means enjoying the gift of this season.

Check out more pictures like the one I took of the lemons above, here. It’s a new season, indeed!

My Web site is officially done! Check it out here.

Does anyone else maintain their own business site? Have any suggestions or lessons learned that you can share with a newbie? Your input is appreciated!

I wore my lumber jack shirt twice in one week, to work. It’s red, flannel, plaid, comfy and surprisingly stylish with pearl snaps. I can wear this to work, because this is how they decorate the office: Animal carcasses line the walls like floorboards would at a normal place.

My attire has changed considerably since I started working, and I’m looking forward to what lies ahead. At my first job out of college, I coveted my coworker’s snappy pantsuits. They were clearly expensive, not a mere attempt at professionalism. Pinstripes, polished shoes … so this is what it’s like to be an adult.

Then at my next job, I spoke in traditional churches in the Bible belt often. My pantsuit wouldn’t quite cut it — as I learned. Not only did I need to be dressed up, but it was preferred that women wore skirts or dresses. I bought my “Republican suit” at Brooks Brothers and wore it proudly to Laura Bush’s church. At least, I told my parents that was her church when she wasn’t in D.C., but I never saw her there. The suit is very Sarah Palin, but I didn’t know it then (circa 2007).

And here we are today, where I wear jeans nearly every day. And I look dressed up compared to the bighorn sheep and birds, with signs that say, “Please do not touch.” No need to worry. … I usually avoid dead, stuffed animals, not touch them.

My last day of work here is Friday. Soon I will be working from home as a freelance writer. Hello, sweat pants and slippers! Goodbye, taxidermy.

My body hurts. Everything from my muscles to my jaw to my hair. Yes, my hair hurts.
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I’m not really surprised it’s one of THOSE days. It’s a Monday. It’s frigid outside but without the benefit of snow. I had a great weekend and a greet week proceeding it. So I was due for a bad day.

It’s like frolicking through a field of flowers — if you didn’t step in a steamy pile of crap every once in a while, the flowers wouldn’t be quite so beautiful. I’ll call this my fertilizing day.
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I’ve come to accept it as a fact. I’m a sweater. Not like a cardigan or pullover; I’m one who sweats profusely. I’ll admit that Dove Clinical Strength deoderant is a staple in our house. And I wear colors that don’t show sweat easily, when I know it will be a particularly juicy day. I live my life and don’t let the sweat hold me back.
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When I was younger, I looked forward to lunch, gym, recess or Saved by the Bell, depending on the time of day. Now I look forward to coffee, lunch, tea or … this afternoon’s reward … writing my grocery list.
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I haven’t been scroggling, that’s for sure. Here are the top 10 things that have bogged me down, blogged me not.
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I’m not claiming a JFK-size conspiracy theory here. I’m just saying sometimes everyone else seems to be in on a joke that’s on me.

The other day just before leaving work, I partook in five-o’clock potty time. (One of my former coworkers started this tradition, because she didn’t want to have to go to the bathroom if she got in a car accident on the way home. I know, it doesn’t make sense, but I still practice the ritual daily.) Anyway, by happenstance, I checked my teeth in the mirror, and there were remnants of lunch’s broccoli. Obvious, green, top row, one tooth over. So, out of the many people I talked to between lunch and 5 p.m., no one could mention this little imposter? Were they all snickering about me as I walked away, as I’m sure they assumed, to gnaw on some foliage at my desk?
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At a recent professional development networking meeting, I heard myself say, "Nowadays, anytime I send an e-mail, I expect a response in five minutes!" Instantly, I was perturbed at my flimsy and phony effort to join the conversation. What? As opposed to when I launched my career and we had to wait on the Pony Express?!