burn baby burn
Yesterday I had to quit a freelance job. I had to quit for both practical and personal reasons. It was one of those funny sort of freelance jobs, where you're only charging within the client's means. But then maybe all freelance work is funny that way, because unless you've got the kind of operation where someone is asking you for time sheets, you almost never submit a bill for the total amount of work that you've done. And this one was *really* funny that way, because it was for something I believe in, and I'd signed on to just help as much as I could, while keeping the costs below a certain (charitable) number.
And then I burned out. That's the trouble; you burn out. It's like taking your car to a garage and saying to the mechanic, Will you promise to fix my car for $600?, and he agrees, and then you've got him. Because after he's fixed the brakes and replaced the fuel pump, you can say, Great, now can you do something about that fucking noise I hear whenever I make a left turn? And then fix the brake lights. And change the oil. You're a star! Did I tell you that we're entered in a race on Saturday? My cousin will tell you what kind of racing stripes to paint on, because he used to be a fucking art director, in fucking New York.
Hell, I don't even know if I like design at all anymore. But I am becoming very certain of my limitations. It's part of getting old. That's why they get them young in the army, so they won't know any better than to charge through fields of fire.