I am not Bear Grylls. In fact, I think a far better reality show than Man vs. Wild would be Bear Grylls, set out to camp in the Wilderglos Valley of Austria, or hike to Angel Falls in Venezuela, with me as his traveling companion. By the second episode viewers would be placing bets on approximately how long it would take for Bear to put me in a headlock and wrestle me into quiet submission. It wouldn’t be an unlikely outcome if Bear had a complete breakdown before the destination was reached, his mental collapse a result of my incessant worrying, whining, and wondering aloud if I packed enough snacks. Bear would spend the rest of his days inconspicuously living a life of luxury in a tudor mansion, brunching with David Beckham and selling expensive vodka and shoes in Japan. The “Born Survivor” wasn’t built to survive me.

I’m not an easy traveler.

I am unattractively neurotic. Obtusely anxious in many ways, perhaps the most flagrant display of my deep-rooted mental instability is my need to plan ad infinitum. Prior to leaving the house, I usually have a course that’s been charted in my head. I plot my day the way a stage parent organizes their child’s career. I create lists the way that most people watch television. These maladjusted compulsions manifest themselves in some interesting ways. For example, I leave out my breakfast every night before I go to bed. A box of cereal, a bowl, a spoon, a knife for my banana, and a cutting board. Of course, if I’m on a date that has found its way back to my apartment, I don’t take a break in the action to set up my station. I do have some flexibility. (Heh.) But, really, outside of the now increasingly rare occasion that I have someone in my home who doesn’t know that I’m batshit crazy, I go through this little ritual every night. And I have a list waiting for me next to my computer, making sure the following day can smoothly be maneuvered according to its preconceived outline from the get-go.

Which is why traveling with me presents a variety of challenges. By nature, globe-trotting is a mutable affair. That’s a large part of its allure, not knowing what’s going to happen, or what your destination will look like, or, in certain cases, how to ask where the bathroom is. There is no way to write a list that can be guaranteed to keep your day on the rails when you’re away from your literal comfort zone, and there’s really no way to know if you’ve packed enough trail mix. I don’t travel often, due to other mental blips (namely my fears of flying and going broke) but when I do it is met with the kind of rigorous study reserved for fledgling lawyers about to take the Bar and high-school juniors with overzealous parents. Websites are pored over, books are highlighted, notes are taken. I know so much about my intended destination by the time I leave that I’m nearly burned out on the place when I arrive.

By this point you’re thinking I’m crazy. I agree. But let me relay a short tale that illustrates how this hysteria is sometimes beneficial. Two Decembers ago, Simon and I moved from Portland, Oregon to Norman, Oklahoma as a result of financial strife and a growing intolerance for trustifarians, ironic facial hair, and self-righteous youths. This was not a well-organized affair. Impulsive, misguided, and ultimately the stake that went through the heart of our romantic relationship, in hindsight we probably should have reconsidered this idea. (Money woes aren’t usually the best motivation for moving in with a significant other.) While I had to let go of the reins and understand that driving with all of our belongings from the Pacific Northwest to the middle of Tornado Alley was not something that could be controlled to the last rotation of the wheels, I could make sure that we were well-prepared for any substantial disaster.

Simon asked why I insisted on packing three blankets, four gallons of water, a radio with three packs of batteries, and enough dried fruit to make an elephant have the runs. I shrugged and replied, “Just in case.” If pressed, I couldn’t have told you “in case” of what. We weren’t going on to be doing a live action reenactment of The Oregon Trail. It was unlikely that either one of us would die of dysentery or a snake bite. Fortunately my neurosis is a bit too shy to plot out the Worst Case Scenario, most likely because I would be so broadsided by panic as a result of my vivid imagination that I would never be able to snap out of my anxiety attack, let alone leave the house. But I know that “in case” requires water, warmth, and food in all situations, so that’s what I tried to provide.

For the first few days, I really did seem certifiably insane. This country’s plethora of Denny’s, Super 8s, and gas stations pretty much assure that you won’t starve, freeze, or wind up as a sequel to that movie about the Uruguayan rugby team while driving across this great nation. The gigantic emergency preparedness kit I’d assembled lay unused and taking up a huge amount of space in our matchbox-sized U-Haul cab. But somewhere in the direction of the southeastern uncircumcised tip of California, years of mental illness were given an affirmation so huge that I can pretty much ensure the world that I will never learn how to relax.

A snowstorm miles ahead of us shut down the highway we were on, leaving us stranded in a seventeen-mile long traffic jam for over fourteen hours.

As I slipped out of the cab to pee for the sixth time in front of the truck (and next to a bucolic little orange orchard) I was gloating. Curled up under those three blankets, swigging from a jug of water and eating shriveled fruit by the fistful, Simon sat and listened to a dubstep mixtape on that battery-operated radio and strained to see if any of the cars up ahead were moving. By the time we made it to the Sooner State all of the water was gone, we were on our last batteries, and I needed to replenish my stash of dehydrated pineapple. Simon never questioned me again when I packed my purse for an evening out. Sure, I might not need a “Pain Pack” of every over the counter painkiller, antidiarrheal, and antacid, but I could. I might also need a Larabar, nail file, and a toothbrush. To the casual observer, the contents of my purse belong to the female MacGyver.

I’m about to depart for mainland Europe. Yup, I’m on my way to Paris. Nope, I’ve never been. And while I’m traveling with a childhood friend who has spent a fair amount of time overseas and has a parent who we’ll be visiting in the famed City of Lights, that hasn’t stopped me from procuring/borrowing/pilfering four guidebooks, several language aids, a map, and enough snacks to last me to next November. I can’t say that I’m ready. (Or, rather, “Je ne sais quoi que je suis prêt…” I think.) But I’ll be gone for almost two weeks, and in that time I know I can’t prepare for everything. But that’s what breeds adventure, right? I think that Bear Grylls would agree. And though it pains me to admit it, I suppose that a writing-focused trip to Europe is my equivalent of scaling the Khumbu icefall. Even Degree antiperspirant couldn’t cover up the stench of my shame. The “Chain of Adventure” is probably sold on the Champs-Élysées, right?

I’ll let the Internet know of my trials and travails as I struggle to loosen my death grip on my environment and navigate Paris without going beyond broke. I don’t think I could write any list that could truly prepare me for what life will temporarily be like without a plan. (And instead with a language barrier, time difference, and cursory understanding of the exchange rate.) Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to try to find a way to pack a blanket in my purse.

When I started freelancing it was because I had been fired for the first time in my life. It was out of necessity and panic, and at that point in my life it seemed pretty clear that things weren’t going so well for me. Not only had I been fired, but I was newly sober, and still walking passed the smoke-filled bars that lined Portland’s rainy streets with a hankering for several shots of whiskey and a drunken dance-off with a stranger. I had no savings, since I had drank it all away, so I lived in an unfinished house with no stove, decorated with exposed insulation and nails springing from every flat surface, and with three guys who tended bar at night and tended to strippers even later at night, all of which would not have been a problem if one of them hadn’t been ejaculating into my closet. (No joke.)

Granted, there were silver linings to all of this: I was no longer tethered to the bottle. At least I had a roof over my head. All three of the bartenders were Southern skinny boys covered in tattoos, basically the walking equivalent of my wet dream, so if they wanted to spunk in my stuff they could have just asked or invited me to watch. Most importantly, I was no longer working at a job I didn’t enjoy, where I didn’t get any personal fulfillment, and where I didn’t get a chance to write. For too long my life’s goal that had been relegated to the back burner on my hot plate. At the time I hadn’t understood the power of positive thinking, though slowly I began to realize that poverty when you’re attempting to do something you love sure beats regular, old poverty.

These days I have a lot of shit swirling around my pot. I’ve moved away from the love of my life and our home of only a few months in order to take care of my mother as Stage IV pancreatic cancer takes over her body. I’m still poor. I’m learning that the depths of my crazy are far deeper than a shot glass. I could craft a complaint for every minute of the day, but what good does that do me? All it would succeed in doing is make me sound like a whiny, ungrateful reality show contestant, and it would rob me of the ability to enjoy the primary bitch-free part of my life: I write for a living.

Sometimes it’s hard to stay positive. But you have to.

Recently I was trying to look up statistics on freelancing in this economy, and I discovered one of those Associated Content articles labeled “The 5 Main Advantages of Being a Freelance Writer.” Now, I always view AC articles as the equivalent of generic, store brand products, which is maybe a little unfair. But thisMyTussin of Internet research had another pet-peeve of mine, right there in the header. ” Doing The “Write” Thing Can Actually Improve Your Life.” A play on words with write, in quotes, really? I had to see what was listed. I assumed the five would include having time to spend with your family, being able to listen to Crosby, Stills, and Nash at work, and being able to take pottery classes at night. Instead they were pretty run of the mill: flexible hours, being able to live wherever you want, a controlled working environment, income tax deductions, and the completely perplexing “Choose Your Own Level of Income.”

In Portland, our list went like this: being able to sleep in, having sex on the job, and feeling good about ourselves. We could only come up with three, but as we’ve learned with pitching ideas to clients, present only your strongest first. The other two would have probably included some mention ofDJing, burritos, Boggle, and body modification.

Things have changed. We’ve survived doing this for some time, albeit it always feels like we’re teetering on the brink of touch-and-go. Certainly if and when I’m stupid enough to have children of my own, I wouldn’t want them to live the way we lived out of necessity for a while there. But I will always want them to follow their dreams, in that cheesy, Hallmark way. (“The Benefits Of Freelancing, starring Stockard Channing, only on Lifetime!”) The benefits of what we do aren’t as simple as that list, and certainly they fluctuate in their accuracy.

I’ve often marveled at the fact that Simon and I studied screenwriting. Do we write movies? Nope. Do we work in entertainment? Nuh-uh. So were the umpteen-thousand dollars spent on our degrees wasted? Well, not exactly. We write promo shorts for companies, tiny spots that they can integrate into videos on their websites, informing customers what they provide. We write scripts for in-house training videos. At times our work involves pacing, dialog, and an innate understanding of how to craft a story arc. The lesson learned in this is that we never know where our craft is going to take us. Sometimes we writewhitepapers , other days it’s a press release, or a product description, or even a letter of resignation for one of our friends. So long as we’re writing and getting paid for it, we don’t care, and this path is not exactly set with traditional milestones. Where most companies have promotions and bonuses, we just have more projects. It’s fun not to know what the next gig is going to give us. The inability to just set our wheels on the track and wait for the next predictable thing to come our way allows us to really live in the present, which sometimes sucks (yes, there are projects that really suck, but, hey, every day can’t be Christmas.) We’re able to flex different muscles, and learn about how to adapt our words to each client individually. It’s a benefit I couldn’t have predicted.

Even though what I do to chase paper is identical to what I do for fun, writing for a living has transformed my writing outside of work. This is another boon to the job that I couldn’t have understood when we started out. After all, how does writing a press release really impact writing a piece of fiction? Turns out that the answer is majorly. Tiny technical details learned on the job get stuck in my brain mush, such as where to put an errant punctuation mark or the difference between complement and compliment. These anecdotes get integrated into my process when it comes to the fun stuff. Moreover, working with a wide array of people in different fields really influences my approach to stories, poems, blog posts, whatever. To use a tired, patchouli-scented analogy: it’s like a yin-yang. One side of my work informs the other, profession and play overlap.

Perhaps the most obvious benefit to this job right now is that it allows me to be here for my mother. I’m not sure that I would have been able to quit my 9-5 and moved across the country if my mom had gotten sick while I was “traditionally” employed. I don’t know if I would have felt the pull of family over the pull of health benefits and a steady paycheck. But being freelance allowed me to pack my bag and get home fast, without so much as questioning it. And being able to make my own hours has allowed me to attend every chemo appointment, sit in the waiting room during every doctor’s visit, and run any errands that she can’t do herself. My mother is a divorcee who lives alone with a variety of poorly-trained animals. She shouldn’t have to battle a terminal illness alone. I’m grateful to the guy who fired me now. He’s given me the opportunity to say goodbye to my mother in what I can only look at as the most wholesome and fulfilling way. I’m able to be of service, while also being on the job. Death takes no vacation time.

Simon and I are not corporate kids. We like to wear ratty tee-shirts, we stay up too late, and we like to blast Joy Division while typing at our desks, which are usually kitchen tables. In order to be sufficiently creative, we have to create an environment that fosters that kind of thought pattern. We can’t wear suits, but we can take conference calls with the kind of professionalism reserved for meeting royalty. We can’t clock in, though we can clock our hours. We can suck, but we can’t suck up. Fighting with the boss has often included expletives and make-up sex. And although some of our peers might get all starry-eyed and jealous that we don’t set alarms in the morning, and commuting to work consists of pouring the hot water over the tea bag and sitting down, there are plenty of trade-offs. Not having health insurance, the lack of savings, the fact that we seem immature, all of these come to mind. And while I may find myself listening to punk rock but day-dreaming of a spouse, some kids, and a well-manicured lawn, I wouldn’t trade this job that I love for any conventional American dream, no matter how much I fawn over the L.L. Bean catalog. (Shut-up.)

The real value of the work we do is simple, it still makes us feel good about ourselves. Being able to invest your passion in your profession comes with a weird sort of salary like that. The IRS might not understand when you label “being awesome” as a deduction, but, trust me, you wake up for work excited to start the day, even if you can’t afford a muffin. So here’s to work and play being united, to positive thinking, and to doing what you love. Turns out that even if you can’t afford a Miracle Bra, you can still feel like your job is some ridiculous miracle. At the end of the day, you can’t stick a pricetag on feeling supremely badass.

You’re welcome for that video.

Drop me a line, AinsleyDrew at the gmail one. And thank you to everyone who donates! It’s yet another thing I’m grateful for. I’d buy you each a bra made of diamonds if I could afford it.

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