This isn't what I signed up for.

This must be the curse of the self-employed. An amber light is flashing somewhere in my head, but I can't see it properly: It's in a blind spot.

I know the spiel: I'm supposed to be in control of the work I take on – how much, how often, how long to spend on it. Instead, I end up taking on everything people call me with, work desperately to meet their deadlines, and work longer hours than before without shifting from my desk.

I'm everybody's girl now.

Clients call to throw tantrums; I pacify them. Editors shorten deadlines; I bend over backwards to deliver. Clients ignore contracts, try to get more work out of you. Cheques never arrive in the mail – if only because you're too busy to remember to send your bills. Even if it's boring work, dry work, hard work, if the person on the phone is more persuasive or agressive than I, I end up saddled with it.

The ability to write has never been such a curse.

And the guilt, the guilt for turning down the duds I do turn down. The measly jobs involving a ton of work and a tenth of what they should pay. The ones I wouldn't do for a million bucks. There are starving freelancers out there, I tell myself sternly, like a reprise of those days when you were little and children in Africa were starving. Swallow the morsel, down the food, clean your plate – even if you can't eat a bite more. Others out there aren't so lucky.

And, you need the money, you aren't a happy-go-lucky swingin' single youngster anymore. There's bills to be paid, the mortgage, the mortgage. Who knows when the next job will come? You haven't hardly enough in the bank. You haven't even gotten round to setting up insurance. Who'll take care of you when you're old?

Ah, freelancing. It's the life.