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T his is my space. This is where I thrive every day. Just me and my tools. A nice hot chocolate sitting close by, the music rocking, and not a worry other than if I make a deadline I set for myself that only I can be mad about if I miss.

Self-employment rocks.

Sure, when taxes come and I have to do math, that sucks.

But only because I was never good at math to begin with.

I’m not the type who was held back, but I was never an A student.

Hell, I was barely a B student. I’m what you call the average girl who you didn’t think would amount to much.

And to be fair, I played that role well.

Grew up in a middle-class family with working parents.

Had friends I was close to. Never went out for any sports or extra things in high school.

Just existed. I went to college, junior college, but still got a piece of paper that someone said meant I was good enough to enter the working class. Did it, hated it, left.

Don’t go gushing about me being your hero just yet.

It took me a long time—and I mean a long time—to figure out what to do.

I’m not a complete idiot. I knew a plan without a job was zero plan.

That’s why it took so long. I knew what I was doing wasn’t my ideal end goal.

I would have died in that life, just gave up on everything.

Any fight I would have had would have burned from my soul, and I would have just settled. But settling is zero life at all.

Coming up with a plan to get out wasn’t easy.

It took hard work. Not that half the people I knew at the time saw that.

They just thought I was messing around outside the office.

They heard my complaints about being up at 5:00 a.m., or even earlier sometimes, as just dead air.

They weren’t jerks. They asked about my “hobby,” but it was just that, a hobby.

To most of them, it was something they couldn’t wrap their minds around how to sit down and do.

Which is a good thing, really. Anyone can do what I do, but only a few people actually do it.

Just enough to get others craving for it.

And while I might not be the best in the world, I have a business.

My own. And when I quit my job, I didn’t do it with a middle finger like I pretended to do in the shower every night before I left.

I did it by saying all the right words so my file was marked “regrettable loss” in the off chance I majorly screwed up and had to come crawling back.

But I didn’t. The three years I spent working and building a clientele before I left were hard.

Working two full-time jobs was all-consuming.

And those first six months were stressful when I was only down to my one job, but I doubled down.

I didn’t let myself sit on the couch for hours on end and only put in a few hours of work in a day.

I treated it like an actual job. Still do.

I clock in and clock out, metaphorically, at the same time each day.

Even when I’m technically off the clock, I’m thinking, planning, and imagining.

My job is my life, and I can finally say I’m happy with it.

I never saw welding sculptures as my calling, but hell, I’m good at it.

Picked it up in high school when I took a class that I thought was going to be an easy one and got my first and only B+.

Yeah, still not an A, but my parents treated me like I was a recently discovered princess for months after we saw that.

Still do. I love my family. We aren’t close as in we call each other every day, but we see each other a few times a year.

We’ve all got things going on. They’re still working their nine-to-fives, and it works for them.

Their goals were never more than just putting food on the table and not worrying about where the next paycheck was coming from.

I’m happy for them. They’re happy for me. That’s all that matters.

“This piece is slamming,” I say out loud as I turn off th e acetylene torch and take a step back to admire the eagle I’m making.

What started out as a way to let off steam after a bad day has turned into a lucrative career.

Each time I made something, another thought would pop into my head.

Or someone would request something so they could gift it.

At first I worked mostly with nuts and bolts, making funny dumpster fire images people used for their papers at work.

Then I started with spoons and forks and did a few animals with texture to them.

Doing things with a military theme became a quick way to get money and followers.

Seemed half the damn country wanted an eagle or some other animal in motion to represent them.

Initially I would personalize it, but that took longer than I wanted to do, so now I weld a creation and put it up on the website.

I don’t do shows or galleries. I’m in it for the money, not the prestige of an artist; I’ll leave all that fame and glory to another.

I price reasonably, nothing over the top, as I know I’m a no-name, and I’m good with it.

No-names get plenty of money, too, and don’t deal with half the crap a known artist does.

“Knock, knock,” Summer calls out as she walks into my garage. I moved in here a little over a year ago. Made sense with all my tools. Plus, my apartment is above it, which makes commuting to the office that much easier .

I step back and put my stuff down before I lower the music.

I might have had a moment once or twice when I required medical treatment because I didn’t power everything down or put it back in its place, even for a second before taking a break.

My stuff isn’t paint. If you touch it, it doesn’t just ruin clothes.

It can cause serious injury from the sharp points or even burn off body parts.

Thankfully, nothing too bad has been burned.

Just a few fingerprints. And really, it’s more of a blessing if I think long term and decide a life of crime is more to my liking.

I lift the visor of my welding mask and give my girl a nod to let her know it’s safe to come in farther than just the open bay doors. Again, another lesson learned after the fact.

“You know it’s winter, right?” she says as she makes her way over to me.

I grab my thermos and take a healthy dose of my still-hot hot chocolate.

So yummy. Best gift Summer ever gave me.

It’s not just a pretty thermos with a skull and crossbones flipping people off in pink and purple—it’s also self-heating if I remember to charge it the night before.

Which I did, for the first time in a week.

Whatever. It’s a good day, and I refuse to be in a bad mood.

I fully believe in manifesting. If you believe something, it will happen.

If I believe today will be good, it will be.

If I think the opposite… well, shit, that’s just not something I’m going to do.

“You know I work with fire and have to be close to it all day, right?”

If she wanted to come over and bitch about the weather, she could have done it after I close up shop.

I keep the bay doors open when it’s not snowing or raining.

I need air to circulate in here. This place gets to feeling like I’m the one on fire and not setting things on fire.

It’s been a few weeks since we’ve had a decent amount of sunshine and the temps got to just above freezing.

One degree makes all the difference in my book.

So yeah, I have the bay doors open. All three of them.

This place was a literal garage before I turned it into my workshop.

I enjoy having the room, and it was already equipped with the insulation and noise suppression if I wanted to run a cleaning machine in one area and take a call or speak to a customer in the office.

And while I might not advertise my shit on social media much, only using one ad that’s been a breadwinner since the start, I do get steady interest from people who drive by if my doors are open.

“Well, time to close up shop, so get to shutting the doors,” she snaps at me a second before she plants her ass on one of my tables.

“Oh, when did you become my boss?” Me putting away my stuff right now has everything to do with my plans today and nothing to do with her telling me to.

“When you stopped answering your phone. And Mack needs an answer ASAP.”

“If Mack needs something, he knows where I am. And the phone hasn’t rung the entire day, so you can stop pretending I’m ignoring anyone.”

“That’s only because you blocked him at Christmas. He’s been calling you every day since then apparently. Now he’s calling me.”

I stop what I’m doing and give her a look. One that says she’s crazy, and she returns it with one of her own that basically says “try me.”

With a sigh, I grab my phone and look up Mack’s number.

Sure enough, I blocked him. Don’t know when I did.

Not the first time I’ve done it. Mack is the guy you don’t want to work with but have to.

He’s not the caring type and usually tells you to work harder, even if you’re busting your ass.

He has zero social skills. But our relationship works only if I answer when he calls and he only calls when he needs something.

Usually, he does so with an attitude. Hence being blocked multiple times.

“Oops.” I unblock the number but don’t call him. Summer’s here. She can relay the message.

I look at her expectantly, and she shakes her head at my childish antics. “He wants you to work New Year’s Eve.”

I huff at that. “Original.”

“Right?” She leans back on her palms and swings her legs. Who’s the childish one now? “Guess the whole ‘after the holidays’ thing didn’t mean all of them.”

“What’s the take?” I don’t know why I ask. It never changes.