A note from the trenches of an emerging creator-solopreneur
We exist in our conversations. I struck up a chat with a dear friend lately. She asked how work has been. She has been privy to my recent career dynamics. I responded letting her know that my definition of work has been evolving steadily, and that while things have not been ice cream, all was well.
I was invited for an interview on Monday. I had applied to the role in a moment of real curiosity, and some uncertainty. Despite having sworn off corporate—publicly, repeatedly. It seemed to be a good idea. Their invitation was evidence of the divine providence. I was glad. I booked a call for Wednesday, today.
By Tuesday, yesterday, they sent me an email. They were very impressed with my background, and this was no reflection of my skills, but the role had been filled, and the interview cancelled. I wrote back immediately, “Thanks for letting me know!” I felt relieved. I had been twiddling the prospect in my mind, wondering if this was really good for me, and how I would explain the red flags—the wide gaps—in my resume. Peace poured in. “Thank you, God!” Funny, hours before then, I had prayed that the interview would go well. Providence had shown me to stay on my current path—right?
I woke up this morning with the first line of a prose poem in my head: Never Hire Me. Here it goes:
Never hire me. I will be a terrible fit for your team. Brilliant and personable, no doubt—you’ll love me. At first.
After the first few weeks, my excess will start to irritate you. My ambition will begin to reveal itself. My multi-tasking which was once loved will start to spill over into curating a spirited LinkedIn presence within work hours—with no performance dip.
Why would I take the job then? Fear. The discomfort that comes with the entrepreneurial path. Look at my profile. You will see that I spent exactly four months at each of my previous roles. It takes exactly four months for me to get fed up and crash out.
If I ever apply to work with you, it’s fear. There’s a small chance it’s because I also truly feel passionate about the role. But that chance is not worth exploring. I have written this post as a testament to myself, and fair warning to you, whoever you may be, who has found my profile and considers my experience impressive.
And to anyone who loves me, hold this post up as a reminder when I start talking about going back to a 9 to 5. Let it be the bronze serpent I look to when I am bit with the uncertainty of my path. Remind me to endure and stay.
This is how you know your time as an employee is up—on your best day, at your happiest moment, you have no desire to contribute to someone else’s vision. You can only conceive of building your own. That is a legitimate and holy feeling.
I don’t think God wants me working for anyone anymore.