Way back in the 1990s, it became de rigueur for businesses to exhort their wage slaves into giving 110 percent to the job. I always loathed that expectation as well as its phrasing. When not wallowing in the magic of word salads, I tend toward the literal and logical. If I give all (100 percent) of myself, then who’s providing that additional 10 percent? This is followed by wondering as to whether there would be anything left of me if I gave 100 percent to the job. Don’t the kids and husband and pets deserve a good portion of me, too? What about me? What do I deserve to reserve for myself?

That expectation to always be on the hustle annoyed me then and it still annoys me. Articles on Inc. and Forbes and posts in LinkedIn to the contrary, business expects their employees to give their all, as if a salary in exchange for a certain number of hours of work entitled them to ownership of mind, body, and soul all the time.

Thank God I freelance.

​Of course, it’s considered unprofessional to mention other clients to any client. After all, each client should feel as though you’ve all the time and energy in the world to devote to him or her. No client should feel as though they have competition or must share your time, attention, and energy.

That particular attitude was pounded into us at a former job, practically with the expectation that we were to work 40 hours per week for each client. If one managed two or three clients, then one was obligated to put in 80 or 120 hours per week.

Not happening, folks. Now, when a client comes to me with a project, I have the authority and responsibility to inform that client when I can fit the project into my schedule and estimate how long it will take me to do. I take into account not only my anticipated workload, but also my schedule. What appointments do I have? What deadlines do I have?

If we go further back to that late 1980s, I remember sitting in an interview for a technical writer position (which I didn’t get) and the hiring manager (another woman) stating that women’s fight to gain equal rights in the workplace resulted in losing some gender-based considerations and preferences. When my mother was pregnant, she lost her job. Back in the 1960s and earlier, that was common. A woman was expected to devote herself to her family. That began to change in the 1970s. By the 1980s, a woman was expected to devote herself wholly to job and family. Separately, as never should the twain mix.

In some ways, it’s true. Women’s Lib cost women a good deal by insisting society ignore biological differences and treating men and women identically and interchangeably for the most part.

But I digress.

I never say I’ll give something my all. Instead I give it my best. I think that’s fair.

Expectations. We try to live up or down to them. Expectations set standards that real life often adjusts for us, whether we will it not not. There’s nothing quite like the high of exceeded expectations and nothing quite like the disappointment of falling short.

In business, our employers, managers, and clients set expectations for us. These may be expressed as standard operating procedures, employee handbooks, deadlines, and guidelines. They are meant to establish a minimum standard for acceptable performance and consistency.

In freelancing, the expectations I must consistently meet are my own. These expectations entail what I deem acceptable effort by me for my clients: nothing less than my best. Sometimes my best isn’t good enough. Sometimes my best isn’t good, but mediocre. I’ve long since learned not to pursue or accept projects that I don’t believe I cannot perform to a certain minimum professional standard. If nothing else, I don’t want my best to be categorized as poor quality.

As an author, those standards and expectations fly out the window during when writing the first draft of a story. The purpose of the first draft isn’t to deliver perfect prose, but to get the story out. The refining and polishing process comes during the editing and revision phases.

When a personal endeavor fails to meet expectations, that failure hurts. It speaks to misjudgment, an error in calculation, a lapse from the reality that governs us. It’s akin to riding the “should-beast.”

I had such an experience lately.

On July 5, I brought home a new horse (pony, actually), a 9-year-old Halflinger mare named Replica of Excellence. She’s beautiful. In equestrian parlance, she rides and drives, meaning she’s well trained as a riding horse and as a carriage horse. What I didn’t consider was her lack of experience.

My best friend, Cindra, who has been generous in helping me with Teddy, has expanded her assistance to include Replica. (Truthfully, I’d be lost without Cindra.) Last weekend, after two weeks of disgusting, sweltering heat followed by a week of almost constant rain, we were finally able to take the ponies out for a spin. We went to Twin Towers Park. The park has a fenced ring used for show jumping, two dressage rings, an eventing course, and bridle trails. We used the fenced ring, relying on the fence to contain the ponies in the event of an “involuntary dismount.” I rode Replica.

I expected Replica to be the calm, cool, steady one: the “should-beast.” I hoped to take a turn or two around the ring, then head out on the nice, wide, flat trails. I expected Teddy to be the Nervous Nelly. My expectations were wrong on all counts, because one cannot ride the “should-beast.” Replica was the anxious one, Teddy alert but not stupid. Replica had the meltdown, which sparked an answering spook from Teddy. We didn’t get beyond the ring. We certainly didn’t hit the trails.

I did, at least, manage to avoid the involuntary dismount.

Real life adjusted my expectations, dialing them back. I decided to be satisfied with getting Replica to walk around the ring without balking. Both directions. With that, we concluded on a good note and began making plans for future rides with lowered expectations.

In writing, one publishes with high expectations. More often than not, the book fails to meet those lofty goals. But we persevere, because passion and determination compel us continue to reach higher and exceed past performance to achieve that elusive state of being known as success.

I was a vendor at the 2021 Imaginarium held at the Holiday Inn Louisville East in Louisville, Kentucky from June 9 through 11. Without really knowing what I was doing, even though it was the third time I’d participated as a vendor in this (usually) annual event, I signed up for “Creatives Alley” rather than the ordinary vendor room.

I’m glad I did.

Event attendance was lighter than expected, which may have been partially due to the inclement weather and/or the new location. The former location was under demolition and in terrible shape. Moving the event to another property was a smart idea.

With attendance being light and a hotel not exactly the venue to attract pedestrian traffic, Creatives Alley was the best spot for a vendor to display wares and advertise services. The organizer was also gracious enough to accommodate my request to bring and set up a second table within my “booth” space. That put me in an ideal spot to catch incoming and outgoing traffic. No, I didn’t sell enough to cover the registration fee or break even on travel expenses, much less make a profit. Each time I participate in the Imaginarium, I do a little better, so I’m not ready to give up on this event yet.

The primary purpose of in-person events, I’m told by those more experienced than I in such matters, is not to sell merchandise and cover costs, but to network. This means engaging with the public and with other vendors. From my point of view, there’s nothing to signal an event’s lack of success than a roomful of vendors trying to sell to one another.

For a diehard introvert, engaging with the public is hard. I can do it. That’s the best way to lure unsuspecting victims … er … potential customers and clients to my table. Once that connection is made and good manners compel the victim to answer the cheery “hello!” with a brief visit, it’s time to engage in conversation. Sometimes it goes well, sometimes not. I try really hard not to be pushy by asking, “What do you like to read?” Then, if that person doesn’t particularly like to read the literature I write, I might be able to direct him or her to another vendor who does.

Consider that my good deed for the day.

This year, a few writers approached me about the services Hen House Publishing offers. Most memorable, one gentleman spoke about his 200,000-word manuscript. I explained my typical recommendation for editing (multiple passes through the manuscript) and the adjunct services to complete the project. He pocketed a business card. Another young man still in college just getting started with writing. I spoke at length to him, too. He pocketed a business card. There were a couple of other people who spoke with me about the services offered. They took business cards.

Some folks purchased books. As stated, each time I attend this event, I do a little better in book sales. This year, I brought paintings, too, of which I sold a few. The compliments were validating.

Of course, not everyone with whom I spoke purchased anything. Most people didn’t. That’s the way these things go: the vendor expends a lot of effort to net a handful of sales. However, it’s not all about the money, right? It’s about making connections with people who may become customers in the future or who may refer one to someone else who then becomes a customer. Working conventions is a long game with no guarantee of success.

So, how does one evaluate the success of such an adventure? I haven’t the foggiest. As far as I’m concerned, an uneventful journey (i.e., no vehicular catastrophes), a comfortable hotel room, decent food, and good placement in the venue are sufficient. The rest is on me, even if attendance isn’t as robust as everyone hopes.

#henhousepublishing #entertheimaginarium #authorevents #booksigning