Why does trying to snag freelance jobs feel so much like dating?
It starts with the attraction thing. A fascinating job offer. An attractive pay rate. A come-hither call-to-action.
My eyebrows raise, my pulse increases.
So I scramble, trying to make myself as comely a writing wench as I can.
I dress up my resume, spiff up my clips, create the most incredible cover letter east of the Mississippi. And to make sure my target hottie knows I'm serious, I add plenty of methods to make the hunt as easy as pie. My phone number. My cell number. My email address. My blog address. My snail mail address.
Then, I send off my little "call me, we'll do lunch" packet and wait.
Days pass. Flowers wilt on the windowsill. I rumple an embroidered handkerchief in my fingers. The candle burns down to a grotesquely-shaped blob.
Finally, the email comes.
It's from an automatic source. It starts off: "Dear Applicant".
My stomach plummets to my curled toes.
I read it thrice.
I dust myself off.
I find something intrinsically wrong with the job. It was truly dull. It would have taken me away from other projects. I would have become disenchanted with the client.
I tell myself it wasn't "meant to be".
But I never forget the one that got away.
Eventually, another call for submissions catches my eye... could this be... the one?