What makes you weak in the knees?

She doesn't have a name, though I think she looks like a Gertrude. Then again, I think a lot of females look like Gertrude.

Born less than a week ago, Gertrude introduced herself to my ankles yesterday. I was visiting one of my favorite farms and she was getting use to life. We hung out and shot the breeze about our mutual love of milk.

Gertrude doesn't have much to talk about. At least not yet. Five days of life isn't a long time to have formed too many opinions, though she does think the national debt situation is ludicrous.

What Gertrude did have practice doing, however, is falling. She performed it masterfully. And often. She stepped. And wobbled. Stepped. And shook. Stepped. And vibrated daintily at the knees, a sure sign of she'll do a fabulous curtsy when being courted.

Fell, she did. A few times. Fighting off the pull of that vibrating ground, Gertrude would, nonetheless, collapse in a pile of legs and shocked eyes, always giving an expression as if to say, "Why does this keep happening? I try so hard."

Then she would try hard again.

I couldn't help but admire her resolve and lean thighs. If only I had both. One more than the other. No, the other one.

Though walking was anything but surefooted and stable, she went at it constantly, stopping here and there for a head pat or a belly rub. She's a determined little thing. Gertrudes often are. It's hard to know if she's avoided the cynical approach because of her inexperience, her personal drive, or her pointed nose. Any and all could be responsible. 

Today I found myself wondering where I'd walk if, at each step, the ground hammered out "Flight of the Bumblebee" beneath me. Isn't that just a typical day? Maybe. Often feels that way. For Gertrude it is. For me, however, if given a choice I seek ground without rhythm.

What does that mean? It means procrastinating a prospective client pitch, contentedly nursing my current networks, writing what I already know and only peering from a distance at what I don't, choosing what I can do instead of what I might, sitting on my derriere instead of wobbling on my legs.

One position might take a while to see progress, but progress will come. The other is sitting on your butt. I'll leave you to determine how much progress will come from that.

Neither great choices. But choices rarely are anything close to great. If one was, we wouldn't need the other.

It's possible that Gertrude is simply a baby. A cute one. And had no lesson to teach. Then again, in her innocence and optimism, maybe she had one crucial thing absolutely right. Perhaps it's time to find out what makes us weak in the knees. Then run, even wobbly, toward it.

It's what Gertrude would do.

Entrepreneurs: Any ideas on unloading that backpack?

This looks onerous. Poor Sam. I feel for him. Wait...I AM him.

Entrepreneur? Check.
Tax burdened? Check.
Stick figure? Not today.

So we have a few things to differentiate us, like I have stronger thigh muscles. Strike that. I have thigh muscles. It doesn't, however, aid in that uphill climb. Every year, as per the year I started working for myself, I have a tax burden over my head that never vanishes.

I've tried paying it. But it only comes back around.
I've tried shooing if off with a broom. But hairy rodents don't scare easy.

It never goes away. I get it paid barely in time to pay it again. Over and over again I take out my checkbook, scratch out a number that should be going toward my mortgage or my vehicle repairs or my business future, and send it to the government never to be seen or heard from again.

That's the life of an American who creates their own income.

Yes. It can be done.
No. It is not easy.
Stop. Talking if you've never been self-employed.

We, the risk takers of the country, are dogged from daylight to dusk to "share" our wealth. Believe me, if I had wealth, I'd have no problem sharing it...with organizations and people of my choosing. Why? Because it's my money. And I've earned every single penny.

Understand me fully, please. I work for myself because I love it. And because welfare sounds dreadful. My clients are stellar. My work is challenging. My schedule is my own. Sort of.

This is what I was created to do. To be on my own. To face the wind and walk against it. To carve out a place for myself, even if that means one divot of a foothold at a time. Besides, I suck as an employee. Truly. Suck.

Here, among the rolling hills and stick-tights of self-employment, I survive best. But it certainly isn't due to a supportive government. It's in spite of them. (Which makes no sense since they reap the rewards of my success. You don't bite the hand that pays your taxes.) I survive because God deems it so. Because a repressive government hasn't beaten me yet. Because I'm just stubborn that way.

But how long? (shoulder shrug) That's a question all entrepreneurs live with. That's a question we wake up with in the morning and tuck into bed with us at night. And then it steals the covers.

If, at any time, you hear a non-job creator touting the moral high ground of shared wealth, introduce them to Sam. He's the one making their world possible. When he refuses to get back up again, no one gets back up.

That's a lot of responsibility for a cartoon.

Business advice you didn't ask for. Or want? Probably.

Cleaning out my email box isn't the same as cleaning my toilet. But it's close. I get all kinds of oddities waiting for me each morning in bold. Some aren't even in English. And no, they're not spam.

Oh the elusive email lists I'm put on. How do these things happen? And why don't they take me seriously when I tell them, "No, really. I want to unsubscribe. Take me at my word."

Today I received one of infinite newsletters giving me business advice. Mostly from writers. And that's not a bad thing. Not always, anyway. Years ago, a certain professor at a certain college who discovered a certain curly-headed girl in a certain small town newspaper office and offered to certainly take her under his wing, gave me some great advice: LEARN! That's right, a professor told me to learn. Earth shattering, yes?

As a writer, he said, you must always be experiencing life or reading about it. You must feed your creativity. And your ideas. And your gut, because bouts with low-blood sugar can really slow down my typing speed.

I took it to heart. Learning is like cold, fresh, spring water to me. Laced with a little tequila and lime juice.

And so today, ready to LEARN!, I opened up the newsletter and read some expert advice about...wait for it...focusing.


I'm sorry, did you just say "focus"?

The nugget of wisdom was about focusing on the task before you. Don't get me wrong, I don't disagree. Focus. Yay! Love focus. But is this really beneficial? Do I really need to be told to "focus"? It's like reading the safety warning on a plastic shower cap that says, "Not safe for ingestion." Really? I can't just gnaw on that baby all afternoon?

When I researched these sage gurus, most have careers no longer than my right pinky. And I do not have an abnormally long right pinky. They had no more, often times much less, experience in the writing field than I. And I don't feel I have anything in the advice arena to offer.

But I had to ask myself...while focusing...can I do better than that?

This is where I'm going to give it a try. So tune in, tune out, but expect some advice you neither asked for or perhaps even want. I'm making it personal because...I feel like it.

Until later. For now, I need to focus on dinner.