When I got pushed forcibly out of the 9-to-5 nest, I had only been working out in the “real world” for six months.
A clueless, jobless poet with two degrees in English and $486 to my name, I knew more about Shakespeare than getting freelance clients.
(Funny… no one was interested in paying me to write iambic pentameter.)
One day, pretty soon after I got laid off from my agency job, I headed to the Smoky Mountains near my house to clear my head.
My phone randomly got a signal at one overlook, and a new voicemail from Scott, one of my few freelance clients, popped up.
At first, Scott had seemed okay—a little distracted, disorganized, and self-important, perhaps, but nice enough. I didn’t have enough experience to notice the warning signs when he gave his reason for hiring me: