CHAPTER 1
THE MESSAGE
The early-morning sun filters through my studio window, dappling the stained wood surface of my desk. I sigh and blink away the glare on my computer screen, squinting at the newly finished illustration of a fox cub peeking out from behind a tree. Another day, another dollar.
If only. My bank account is running on fumes.
My work mail pings. Lenka.The Big Boss.
I steel myself and open it, bracing for the usual barrage of criticism sure to come.
Lenka: The cub’s eyes are too small and close-set. Makes him look dim-witted and deranged. Fix it.Also, the tree trunk is crooked. I shouldn’t have to point these things out.
Me: Will revise. Thanks for the feedback.
Lenka: Don’t thank. Just do. Six weeks to deadline.
I grit my teeth and take a deep breath, trying to calm my frayed nerves. Lenka may be a brilliant children’s publishing executive, but she lacks an ounce of tact. Or patience. Whichyou’d kind of expect from someone working day in and day out with dragons and fairies and dancing piglets. And after months of working for her, you’d think I’d be used to her acerbic tone and frustration with my ‘shortcomings’. But her constant criticism still stings.
Bright side is I’m getting better, toughening up. I don’t need half a bottle of Rescue Remedy before a Zoom anymore, and Ash says I’m grinding my teeth at night a lot less, so I’ll take that as steady progress and excellent professional development, thank you very much.
And Hedgerow Press istheestablishment when it comes to children’s literature, so I’m grateful for the chance to work with her at all.
And no matter how hard it feels sometimes, I’m sticking with it to prove myself as a professional illustrator, to break into the business and build a name for myself – and, ideally, securean in-houseposition that’ll set me up for life so I can escape this rollercoaster of freelancing with its hit-and-miss success. Most of my time is spent chasing up leads with speculative work and proposals and then chasing down clients for payment and testimonials.It’s exhausting.
I thought giving up the nine to five at the call centre would free me up to focus on what I’m really passionate about: art – it’s what I’m supposed to be good at – but instead, I work longer, lonelier and with less pay than I knew was legal.
I’ve always been passionate about illustration, about crafting whimsical worlds and lovable characters on the page.But here’s the Thing.(Why does there always have to be aThing?) Working this way is not working out. It’s draining all the joy from my life, leaving me burned out, blocked up and questioning my ability.As in, do I haveanyability at all?
And questioning my future.As in, do I have afuture at all?
It’s a bitter pill to swallow – especially asI did all this to myself. All fingers point back to me. Hands up, white flag, full disclosure. I cocked up. Icarus syndrome. I thought I could do it, aimed for the sky, flew too high, panicked and am now mid-crash and burn.This part here is the pre-splat teaser.
Turns out the creative career I dreamed of is turning into a slow-burning nightmare. Worst part is, I invested everything I had in this career leap and jumped in with two feet, desperate to prove that I could do it – all me, nobody else, so this failure sits squarely with yours truly.
I hatched the idea on my thirtieth birthday, loaded with Milestone Birthday Panic, Seize The Day Spirit and Pornstar Martinis. The bit I can blame my bestie Kayla for: pushing me to ‘Go For It’,to ‘Dream Big’. After all, she runs her own hugely successful business and made it look so easy, so doable, so worthwhile.
But it wasn’talldown to Kayla or the Pornstar Martinis; realising that my mother had never seen her thirtieth birthday wasa big wake-up call. I felt a huge whoosh of making the most of time, not taking anything for granted, needing to really make the most of life and every opportunity that came my way. Anyone who has experienced life-altering changes in an instant knows how close it brings you to understanding that nothing is guaranteed.
Fast-forward two years. If I knew then what I know now, I’d say:Gung-ho? Gung-NO. I’d have a little word with myself along the lines of:C’mon, Daisy, you know that little safe life you think is so boring, the one you could do with your eyes closed and paid you every month? Stay there. Hang on to that baby. Because you know what’s really boring? Poverty, never feeling good enough and pretending to your boyfriend that everything is amazing.
So, the lingering question is when do I draw a line in the scorched earth of my life and admit defeat? Get tucking that tail between my legs and go back to the call centre.
My phone buzzes – a text frommy boyfriend Ash. ‘We still on for flat hunting this evening at 6 p.m.? Found a great new listing in our price range.’
‘Amazing!’ I type, letting a row of cork-popping emojis do the heavy lifting.I hate myself but can’t stop. Ash is allergic to inconvenience, failure and cats.We have a tacit ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy in our relationship that covers stressy stuff, period cramps and how much time Ash spends in the bathroom. Speaking of stressy stuff, the next six weeks will be either:
a. More Lenka and employment-related stress.
Or:
b. No Lenka and unemployment-related stress.
‘This could be the one!’ Ash texts.
It could be, but… no point offloading to Ash when I don’t even know what’s going to happen yet with my current job status. I’ll make it work. I’ll figure something out.
‘Send me the location and I’ll see you there x,’I type.
