Jeffrey R. Clark, Ph.D.

Freelance Writer

Leech on Life: A Freelance Perspective

I imagine that I will offend the sensibilities of some folks with what I will say in this piece. That is not my intent, to be sure. My purpose is primarily to reflect on my experience living and working near Washington, D.C., a place that is often referred to in some manner through the use of the word ‘Beltway.’ I must confess, I did not live or work “inside the Beltway,” but I did manage to skip off that accursed road like a stone each day to and from work.

I was lured to the Beltway partially out of a desire to make some “decent money” (which, at the time, meant “more than I can make in a rural area”), but mostly out of a desire to attempt to redeem some of the nine years I spent in so-called higher education. I quickly learned that the “decent money” part is pure myth, and I have come to believe that, with few exceptions, no matter where I go and what I do, I’ll always feel like I’m just scraping by on the bills. Housing was the biggest drain near the Beltway, of course. There was also the rather ironic part about how I had the burning need to stay as far away from my place of employment (where I spent most of my waking hours) as I could possibly bear to commute on a daily basis. The cost of housing is what bothered me most; the highway tolls didn’t phase me, the cost of the gas rarely crossed my mind, the utilities bills weren’t of much concern. The most loathesome part has struck me only of late.

How much is really gained in such a lifestyle? Is it even conducive to life? I think about the time spent on the job: at least one could say that I was being productive and earning something to help enjoy time off work and to prepare for retirement. Fine. But consider taxes: a solid third of every day is spent doing work gratis, and there is no consolation with claims of government services received: everybody knows that most of that money goes into the black hole. Consider the exorbitant cost of housing: over a third of what’s left goes into paying for a tiny flat that, in truth, does little more than provide a roof and a place to deaden the brain in front of a tube. Then there’s everything else: gas, car maintenance, tolls, fees and other taxes of innumerable sorts, anything you can imagine to continue whittling down that once attractive paycheck to a pittance. So, for my life near the Beltway, I receive just enough to keep any outrage in check. But this isn’t the worst part. What about all the time spent preparing? Commuting? Packing lunch? All those things involved in just getting to the job? Sure, lots of money is lost in a seemingly pointless manner, but what is worse is the loss of time. In order to work that job that yields a pittance, I am being drained of time, which is life that will never be seen again. The money spent on excessive taxes, cost of living, preparation for work and various forms of therapy (be they television, gym membership or whatever) makes the Beltway life seem close, dangerously close, to being a cycle of waste. Time is burned to make the money that sustains one in further time spent making more money. Time, however, is only spent from a finite purse that is granted at birth. Money, well, it comes and goes.

So, here I sit, at my own computer, on my own time, writing and building a business that I hope will sustain me. I don’t seek riches; I just seek enough to keep me going until the next day. What is the difference from the Beltway life, you ask? Time. The time is mine. And, no matter how much is taken from me in taxes, or even spent in the cost of living (which, I assure you, is far less where I presently reside than it is around the Beltway), I still have time. I certainly do not mean time to do whatever I want in some sort of a prodigal way, but time to be dedicated to work I enjoy in a place I love. I need not spend time preparing to spend time working; that waste is gone. My hope is that my business will succeed; to be sure, my fear is that it will not. This fear is not so much of failure, for failure I have met with and can handle, but it is a fear of the alternative. My fear is of that thing called the grind. Whatever happens, though, I believe that my time in what is commonly called “self-employment” has given me a taste of something that is given so much lip service but so seldom found as more than illusion: freedom. Not freedom from work or responsibility, but freedom to work and to take responsibility. I believe I have been granted the talent to write better than all but a few; perhaps just enough people out there will believe the same.


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