“Do not go near the water,” Hawk our tour guide implored, the usual dulcetness of his voice suddenly evicted. Like a herald of woe, he would repeat himself two other times, once after we disembarked from the jeep and again as we made a beeline for our destination.
Stomach-churning precedents lend the black sand beach of Vik, Iceland, its mystique. Ferocious waves, unrelenting and non-discriminatory, have taken the lives of unsuspecting tourists and fathers who ventured too far out. Overhead, spiralling flocks of puffins, fulmars and guillemots lay claim to the sky. I flew my drone at a low altitude so as not to encroach.
Looming before a vast stretch of black sand and pebbles is the majestic Reynisfjall Mountain, columns after columns jutting out of its body. Tuffs of tawny moss crown the basalt rock pillars. Stippling the grey mammoth are gaudy red, green and blue outfits, worn by tourists who gingerly clamber up the stacks to get their rightful I-was-here pictures. At the base of the mountain yawns the opening of the shallow Hálsanefshellir cave.
Yonder, Reynisdrangar beckons — a trio of basalt sea stacks that folklore would have you believe was the works of trolls. The beasts laboured and dragged a three-masted ship when sunlight rend the cloud and turned them to stone.
My body stoops over my knees as I seek a momentary respite. A torrent of sweat pitter-patters on the floor like rain on windows — I’m knee-deep in my enervating mission to complete 120 power lunges in four minutes. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer ripping through concrete slabs: I had earlier just completed successive high kicks and jacks and squats and whatnot. I contemplate my decision to put myself through agony. The pulsating 170-bpm remix of The Weeknd’s Can’t Feel My Face blaring from the speakers imbues slight, almost-futile motivation.
“And now, we’re going to take it down a little, just so we can rise to our peak,” hollered the strapping BODYATTACK instructor, whose energy permeates the room and never seems to peter out.
“That wasn’t your peak?!” my mouth agape, my mind offended by the revelation.
Bhas Karan used to wear green to his workplace. Devoting 10 years of his life to the Singapore Armed Forces, the infantry specialist was tasked with grooming young impressionable conscripts into effective soldiers. The effervescent and glib-tongued 31-year-old often took on double duty as a master of ceremonies, his anything-goes humour whipping through the crowd.
Today, his choice of work outfit is less regimental and more comfortable. His brightly-coloured singlet reveals a tapered and hard-earned Adonis physique: the culmination of many hours spent pumping iron. He jettisons his polished though scuffed-up boots for a pair of Reebok sports shoes. Knee high socks, diligently chosen to match his top, complete the ensemble. It is the uniform a BODYATTACK instructor so proudly wears.
“BODYATTACK is an adrenaline-filled fitness class that combines athletic movements like running, lunges and tuck jumps, with strength exercises like squats and push-ups thrown in the mix,” explains Bhas. “During a typical class, one could burn up to 750 calories. It’s all about pushing the limits of your physical tenacity.”
BODYATTACK is one of many fitness programmes masterminded by Les Mills International, Auckland. Intensity, sweat and above all results are its hallmarks. This pre-choreographed aerobics-inspired workout comprises 11 tracks, and for one hour takes participants through journeys of agility, speed and strength.
At the heart of the Les Mills empire are the instructors. They are the faces, the ambassadors, the lifeblood of this global brand. While most of us are still lost in slumber, many of them, like Bhas, unfailingly wake up at the crack of dawn and ready themselves for an 8am class.
The first steps
Bhas’s first BODYATTACK class was back in 2009, and he was a participant. Ten minutes prior to class commencement, he had no inkling what it entailed. “In came this petite yet mean-looking lady, who introduced herself as Daisy [Terry]. And by ‘mean-looking’ I’m referring to her physique. Her demure disposition transformed the second the first music beats dropped. Fierce and brimming with energy she was, and she took us through a myriad of lunges and tuck jumps and jumping jacks.”
In that short one hour, Daisy had a profound impact on Bhas. “The way she delivered her coaching… the way she implored the participants to push harder… the way she carried herself on stage… she was the true mark of an instructor. She redefined the meaning of ‘fitness’. I was so impressed to the extent I wanted to be like her. I saw myself doing what she did best. And being a people person, the decision to embark on this journey came easy.”
6:10am and the lazy sun has yet clambered to its zenith. Haukur “Hawk” Thorsteinsson is already up. He downs the famed Icelandic hotdog — his sustenance that fuels him for a nine-hour day of adventure — and washes it down with a glass of water straight from the tap.
He tends to his tawny, jaw-framing beard. So luscious and conspicuous the beard is that it has been a part of his identity for 20 years. “I’ve been growing it on and off since I was 15 years old, and it was around then I got the nickname ‘Hawk the Beard’. It is very wild, and it takes some time to tame it in the morning. Between that and my handsome mustache… it’s a 10-minute routine.”
Almost a necessity that supplants a scarf in Iceland’s frigid weather, Hawk’s beard recalls the stout Vikings of yore. Icelanders are no stranger to Nordic mythologies, and many grow up hearkening to sagas of valour. “I am especially intrigued by the way Master JRR Tolkien connects the Nordic mythologies with his own stories.” Hawk’s obsession du jour is Grettir the Strong, honoured in legacy as one of the strongest Vikings that ever lived. Such stories the 35-year-old tour guide enthusiastically regales his passengers with.
It is now 7am. Hawk runs a mental checklist: GPS navigation device, ropes and shovels — all checked. He has a long day ahead. A day of traversing glaciers and exploring stratovolcanoes and the like on a modified 4×4 jeep. Getting stuck in knee-deep slush is common and extrication is not a task for mere mortals. The vagaries of Icelandic weather also mean a snow blizzard could happen anytime. As a safety precaution, Hawk always travels alongside a buddy tour guide, the latter of whom is hosting another group of tourists himself.
From his home to Reykjavik, Iceland’s capital, is an hour’s drive. Between 8:30am and 9am he makes his rounds and picks up passengers from their hotels. “They come from all over the world. What I love most about my job is that every day I get to meet new people. I enjoy making people happy and helping them live their travel dreams. My goal is to have my passengers return from a trip with a smile etched on their faces.”
Unlike the usual tour arrangement where multitudes of tourists are herded like sheep, Hawk’s groups are usually small and imitate. “In my jeep, good vibes abound and people get to talk and share stories freely. I am one of those people who give a lot of myself, and therefore I enjoy it when my passengers reciprocate.” And unlike typical tour arrangements that run like clockwork, Hawk can make special sightseeing requests happen.
“I sometimes go on multi-day tours, and I get to stay in hotels around Iceland. These are fantastic tours because I get to know the passengers better. But it can get a little difficult because I’m also a huge family man. I try to talk to my wife and three sons on the phone or via the internet.”
Standing in the silence of Icelandic highlands. "When it is very cold and everything is covered in snow, it gets extremely quiet. One has not known real peace until he has stood there and enjoyed it."
In screenwriting, the superhero-saves-the-cat trope is one that raises the ire of professional readers. But at one point in his life, that was Lin Dilun’s everyday routine. As a Singapore Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA) officer, he would answer calls to complaints of animal abuse. Saving animals trapped on precarious ledges was his call of duty.
Another ingredient of a superhero’s story? Complicated childhood. Checked once again for Dilun. “I was very young when my parents separated, and that probably made me more independent as I was left to my own devices.”
All through secondary school, Dilun was a member of the National Police Cadet Corps. It was then teamwork and discipline were inculcated in him. And he became privy to the life lesson that the world does not revolve around him. “It’s important for us to find our own place in this great big world we live in.”
Perhaps his biggest feat ever, one that dwarves the collective karmic good of many, was donating his kidney to Bryan Liu. A boy with whom Dilun has no blood relations. A boy whose face he only gazed upon in person two days after the life-altering transplant.
Only 27 was Dilun — and Bryan six — when he “needlessly” opted to go under the knife in 2012. He first knew of the boy’s plight on 14 June 2010 after chancing upon a story featured in The New Paper. Bryan was born with only one kidney, which was abnormal. His mother, Madam Serene Ng, donated her own kidney to him when he was two years old, but a rare viral condition meant that it had to be removed.
By the time Bryan turned three, he was living with no kidneys and had to be on dialysis 10 hours a day. He also had to consume a cocktail of medications as well as receive growth hormone therapy.
Initially, Dilun did not give the story a serious thought. But something stirred in him when he read The New Paper’s follow-up report that none of the 25 Samaritans who stepped forward and pledged their kidneys was a suitable candidate. Dilun realised he shares the same blood type — O+— as Bryan. Perhaps it was a cosmic connection, as he has a half-sister about Bryan’s age, that spurred him to touch base with the family. He did so via the dedication page on Facebook titled “A Kidney for Bryan, A Gift of Life”.
The heft of his decision soon became palpable when he was put through a slew of tests. Dilun’s first interview was held at National University Hospital’s kidney transplant office, and he went home armed with a 27-page literature with information on living kidney donation. Thereafter, a laborious journey of medical test after medical test as well as psychiatric assessments ensued.
“Most of the interviews centred on ensuring there was ‘informed consent’. As all good doctors will say, ‘First, do no harm.’ The medical team’s utmost priority was to ensure there was no long-term impact on my health and that I knew what I was signing up for.” He did. Dilun admits his body has taken a beating over the years and he wears his surgical scars like a badge of honour. “I’ve been through many surgeries before for broken bones and whatnot, and I know there are some risks involved with any procedure, be it minor or major.”
While he was given the all clear on both physical and mental health aspects, hesitance came from one person — Madam Serene Neo, his mother. “Initially she urged me not to do it, out of concern for my own health. Eventually she came around, and backed my decision. At that point in time I could afford to give Bryan a kidney and save his life. That’s all that mattered. With assurance from the medical team that my health would be closely monitored, and the surgery was a low-risk one, it became a pretty easy decision to make.”
Encouragement also came from his pillars of support: the ones he counts his closest friends. He did not publicise his decision, a behaviour somewhat incongruous with today’s social-media-obsessed proclivities. Later in 2012, he came forward with the story as he wanted to raise awareness about living organ donation, even if it meant risking his personal privacy.
We are all on this world to help one another.
As Ellen DeGeneres would say, ‘Be kind to one another.’
Feet planted on a glass floor. The elevator’s homed. Dark, very dark. A whirring sound grew in strength, soon drowning out any laboured breath or cry for help. Suddenly, white light filtered through and the glass beneath gave way to nothingness. Vertigo. Sheer vertigo as the elevator climbed higher and higher the pentagon-shaped architecture of steel. All that shielded me from a vertiginous fall to my death now was a see-through glass. Glass cracks, no?
The altitude increased, and my legs quaked like jelly as the immutable laws of gravity forsook me. As the elevator hoisted me to 192 metres above ground, the last vestige of earth blurred.
A male guide probed, “One last question: Did you pass the sanity test?” “I think I missed by one point, which explains why I’m here,” I said, engaging him in a repartee. I was given the green light to proceed. Finally, the hour had come. I lumbered down the bridge that juts out of the tower. Now the promised panoramic view of Auckland’s skyline greeted me.
Gracing the vista were lush greenery and high-rise buildings. Gale-force wind swept over the vast sea yonder, and dishevelled my once-Justin-Bieber-inspired hair. My friendly guide tethered me to the last safety harness, and very soon I was teetering over the edge, my hands tightly clutching the railings.
Bungee jumps or sky jumps test your courage. It’s different from skydiving, because in the latter the instructor pushes you over. Both of you die, if death comes. It’s oddly comforting. With base jumps, you have to be the one who lets go; the one who takes that leap of faith; and the one who wills your mind to do what your now-throbbing heart refuses to.
“All right, on three… two… ” I dithered, my body now swaying back and forth and my heart racing like a jackhammer. My once-unbridled enthusiasm receded, my mind now inundated with “what have I done?” rhetorical questions.
“Onnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…….” You have to jump on cue, at the very last count, or you won’t ever jump.
After heaving a long, deep breath, I did so. And I was weightless, and free.
Jettisoning my NASA outfit and changing into bright prison-orange overalls, I readied myself for the next daredevil act: SkyWalk. I got a quick compliment about how the overalls matched my sport shoes. Ringing the man-made structure is a 1.2-metre-wide ledge, 53 stories off the ground. Meandering belts of roads teeming with vehicles came into the aerial view. Towering buildings became LEGO-sized play pieces.
My group and I did more than just perambulate the walkway. We were asked to tip our bodies forward, walk backwards and even sit into a full squat with our feet dangling precariously off the ledge.
SkyJump / SkyWalk Mission Control
Address: Auckland Sky Tower
Corner Federal and Victoria Street
Auckland City, New Zealand
Freephone: 0800 759586 (SkyJump) or 0800 759925 (SkyWalk)
If going for the combo of SkyJump and SkyWalk, opt for the former first. Once you have leapt off that deck and stared down death, you’re invincible. The SkyWalk becomes a walk in the park! I was dancing and doing the jig. I did every stunt with alacrity and was able to imbibe the stunning view and live in the moment uninhibited by fear.
Only thing I regret was not changing my name to Luke. I could have been Luke SkyWalker. Get it?
Dementia is an ugly, terrible disease, but the minds it claims are not. Living with a dementia patient can take a toll on a caregiver. But there are lessons that we can learn from the patients, and we only need to lift the nebulous cloud to unveil the beauty.
Celebrate the Smallest of Feats
One day my mother emerged from the bathroom, and was launching congratulatory fist pumps in the air. She felt accomplished because she wore her shirt correctly. A simple, thoughtless task that was her feather in the cap. Too often we get lost seeking grandiosity, and we find faults with our life. We belittle our seemingly-negligible progress. We ought to give ourselves a pat on the back every single day.
The Gift to be able to Forget
Forgive and forget. Let bygones be bygones. These are life lessons inculcated in us from young, but we hardly keep to them. We hold onto grudges, almost needlessly. Even when her nerves are frayed, my mother forgets all our pettiness, our flare-ups all in but five minutes. It’s like nothing had happened. If only we could all have the same reset button!
Savour the Memories
Dementia patients may not remember new encounters, but they sure love digging up the past. As we take on life at full throttle, we tend to lose sight of what’s important to us, of what used to be our anchors. Where did that little girl who aspired to “see and save the world” go? She’s crunching numbers, day in, day out. Is your life in the doldrums? Reconnect with your past to recharge for your future.
Slow Down
We careen through life at the breakneck speed of a bullet train. We rush hither and thither, we mechanically sift through tons of emails at work and we don’t ever stop. Because of their condition, dementia patients are limited in their mobility. I used to scarf down my dinner in five minutes because I need to work on a deadline, but my mother’s condition has impelled me to take my time. Have dinner at the dining table, and stay there until everyone is done. Work can wait. Chew the food. Taste every subtle note. Swallow it. Enjoy the quietude. We have so little of it these days.
Be Afraid, but Do It Anyway
The thought of taking escalators blanches my mother; she approaches them as if she were going on a roller coaster. Descending the stairs scares her. But when push comes to shove, she crosses these everyday hurdles like a champion. What are your fears? Acknowledge them, embrace them and then conquer them.
Dainty, exquisite dim sum. Each pleat attests to the chef’s finesse, honed over long years. Comforting and heartening, each mouthful of dim sum harks back to a simpler time. The palatial Hai Tien Lo offers a weekday and weekend dim sum buffet, and so we can enjoy these esculent masterpieces any day we want!
Towering columns of red, embroidered ivory table cloth and overhanging red lanterns add to the restaurant’s majestic intrigue. The food is also commendable. The price for one pax is SGD56 per person, but that is not including the 7% GST and 10% service charge. The final price comes up to SGD66. Tea, if you choose to have it, will come at an additional cost per person, not per pot. Service makes or breaks the dining experience, and here it kicks up the enjoyment several notches. The waitstaff are polite, and are eagle-eyed and quick to clear your dirty plates and refill your empty cups. Bonnie, my waitress, gave impeccable service. She indulged my questions, from opening time to trivia on a few dishes. Awesome!
Steamed Shrimp Dumplings: Encased inside the translucent skin is a huge, juicy prawn!
Braised Shredded Abalone with Crab Meat and Asparagus in Thick Broth: For the soup selection, each guest is entitled to just one serving, so choose wisely! The crab meat steals all the attention with its pronounced, lingering taste. This invigorates the palates.
Hot and Sour Soup with Seafood and Fish Maw in Thick Broth: The peppery notes were too strong and cloying. Thumbs-up to the generous potpourri of seafood and fish maw though!
Steamed Chicken Feet in Spicy Black Pepper Sauce: Drenched in amoreish, savoury sauce, the chicken feet had a soft texture and the meat came off easily.
Steamed Barbecued Pork Buns: Tim Ho Wan has forever ruined pork buns for me because their version is a tour de force and remains superior. With Hai Tien Lo’s rendition I enjoyed the fluffy exterior. The meat was a little overdone but the sauce was just right.
Deep-fried Taro balls with Minced Chicken and Quail Egg: Look at that ethereal crisp engulfing the quail egg! This is one of Hai Tien Lo’s signature mainstays. The crunchy exterior and the hard-boiled egg played off each other wonderfully.
Baked Chicken Tart with Cheese, Mushrooms and Pineapple: This was another one of my favourites as I have an inclination towards flaky, well-laminated pie crust. The melted cheese and chicken chunks joined in holy matrimony and it was a beautiful dance of flavours.
Deep-fried Sea Perch Rolls with Foie Gras and Prawn Paste Wrapped in Vermicelli: The name evoked excitement but the build-up of anticipation ultimately led to disappointment. The crispy vermicelli was delightful, but the inside was kind of bland. There was no discernible taste of foie gras, sadly.
Steamed Xiao Long Bao with Minced Pork: They should rename this to Zhong Long Bao (medium-size) because I simply marvelled at the mammoth rendition! The piping-hot soup that playfully spritzed was orgasmic.
Barbecued Honey-glazed Pork and Roasted Duck: This is under the Hai Tien Lo Specialty column, so each table only gets three choices. Skip this as they were middling and nothing to shout home about. The meat was tough, and the crackling was not crispy at all. The accompanying plum sauce earned more plaudits from my mother though!
Stir-fried French Beans with Prawns in Minced Garlic and Chilli: After the meat overload, this was a welcomed sight. It’s refreshing, and again, look at those big prawns! Size does matter.
Deep-fried Fresh Prawn Rolls with Banana: I was anticipating this dish as banana is almost persona non grata in the world of dim sum. True enough, the interplay was not as smooth as I had hoped. The banana was too overpowering, so much so it was reminiscent of a banana fritter. But at least we got our two servings of fruits per day down, right?
Steamed Pork and Prawn Dumplings with Fish Roe: Those glinting fish roes perched on top gave a mischievous spritz.
Deep-fried Bean Curd Sheet Stuffed with Fresh Prawns: These might just be the best dim sum in the buffet! The unctuous but not cloying bean curd sheet was crispy and thin. The prawns, as usual, were the headliners. In fact, when you’re at Hai Tien Lo, be sure to get all their prawn dishes: their calling card!
Chilled Homemade Bean Curd with Bird’s Nest: This is a complimentary item on the menu. Silky, velvety and blissfully light. It slides down the throat. This was a wonderful dessert to cap off the session.
Hai Tien Lo offers four items for its dessert selection. Each guest is entitled to one serving of any two items. Go for the Chilled Mango Sago Cream with Pomelo and Lychee, a slightly tangy but entirely gratifying offering. The consistency is thick! The Double-boiled White Fungus with Osmanthus and Maltose should resonate well with elderly folks who don’t have a sweet tooth. The floral tinge is refreshing.
Right across Hai Tien Lo is edge, one of the best, if not the best buffet, restaurants in Singapore in my opinion. Pan Pacific is really hitting it out of the park with its stellar line-up of restaurants.
Hai Tien Lo
Address: 7 Raffles Blvd, Marina Square, 039595
Location: Level Three
Opening Hours
Lunch – 11:30am to 2:30pm Dinner – 6:30pm to 10:30pm
Yes, we freelancers are passionate and yes we love what we do. But ultimately we still need sustenance in order for us to continue doing what we do. Money is motivation, money is key to survival. One of the greatest things about being a freelancer is that you get paid for every project you undertake. Kaching!
Before you start work on any project, there’s always this back-and-forth on fees. Read on to find out how you should price your services.
Deciding Your Basic Hourly Rate
This is the easiest and also the trickiest thing you’d need to do. It’s one of the first questions clients will ask, and a deciding factor if they want to hire you.
It’s easy because you have carte blanche. Perhaps you’ve decided during the first meeting that your prospective client is really your prospective spouse. Give a discount! A meeting with a beta-male client might raise several red flags and you foresee a dark, grim road ahead. Charge more! How much you want to charge is entirely up to you.
It’s tricky because how do you decide how much you’re worth? And would industry people be willing to pay you handsomely, however handsome you may be?
Ultimately, it all comes down to a few things:
What is your financial goal? Say you want to earn a six-digit annual income. That means you’d need to hit $8,333 per month, $2,083 per week.
How many hours a week do you want to work? Working 40 hours a week is realistic. That comes up to $52/hour.
And there you have it: your basic hourly rate.
Deciding Your Professional Hourly Rate
The basic hourly rate is a little too simplistic. It comes in handy when you have a great opportunity that you don’t wish to pass up on, but the client’s budget is tighter than your jeans. This would be your best price. It’s the fee that won’t make you feel as if you’re slaving in a sweat shop.
For you to hit your financial goal, you’d have to work 40-hour work weeks for 52 weeks straight. That means you’re not allowed to fall sick, procrastinate or take any vacations. You gotta put the ‘free’ — as in ‘free spirit’ — in ‘freelancing’!
The above price model only works if you have lined up so many projects that you’re all set for the year. Which is impossible because you’d still need time to generate leads, go for meetings and make amendments to your works.
So double — or triple it; again it’s up to you — that basic hourly rate. Now your professional hourly rate is $100/hour.
Deciding Your Project Fees
More often than not, clients will ask you to quote a lump-sum figure. It gives them the surety that you can keep to your proposed budget. Just imagine you’re in a taxi and the meter’s running. The errant driver takes the longer route, one that’s dotted with traffic junctions, so that he can charge you a higher fare. The same is true with hourly fees: clients proceed with caution because they do not know if you’d pull a fast one on them.
How should you decide your project fees then? Easy: use your professional hourly rate! How long does it take you to design a logo? How long does it take you to write one article? It’s simple maths then.
Project Fees = Professional hourly rate x Number of hours x Number of deliverable
Know and Charge for Your Value
Photo Credit: Anonymous
As you get more and more experienced, you will be able to clear your workload faster. When I was a junior writer, I would spend four to five hours churning out a food press release. But now I have the lexicons at my disposal, and I can polish a draft in considerably less time. Does that mean I should charge lesser than a junior writer because I spend less time on it? Definitely not.
I recently had to get a plumber to change my kitchen faucet. He charged $120 for a job he finished in 10 minutes. I was once locked inside my house, and had to call a locksmith. To extricate me, he hacked away the lock in just two minutes and charged me $80. I felt the pain of parting with the money, but I didn’t haggle. I mean, I could change the faucet myself but it would probably be the second coming of the Yellow River Flood.
We tend to lower our fees when we’re met with a gasp or an disapproving gaze. But remember this: your client needs you. That is why he is getting your help. He doesn’t have the same skill set as you do. He could be a senior person in your field, say photography, but he needs your help — maybe he’s too busy. You’re providing something of value. And you should charge for what you can bring to the table.
And so the formula for deciding your project fees would be:
Project Fees = (Professional hourly rate x Number of hours x Number of deliverable) + Your Value
Don’t Forget the Extra Time Needed for Miscellaneous Tasks
With creative endeavours, chances are you won’t hit the bull’s eye the first time round. Designers have to make amendments according to clients’ seemingly-whimsical requests, and then the revisions as stipulated by their clients’ bosses. Photographers have to spend hours sifting through photos and then enhancing the selected ones. All these tasks take up time, and they should be factored into your quote.
Seek Advice from Others in Your Field
I began my freelancing career in 2009, and circa 2013 I was still quoting $25/hour for event coverage. I thought it was a lot of money. It wasn’t until I had to enlist a fellow writer to stand in for me that I realised I was freeballing low-balling the entire time. I asked him if my fees were reasonable. He said — and I quote verbatim — “Someone of your calibre should be charging a lot more.” After that conversation my fees skyrocketed.
I used to charge 10cents per word, and gradually increased it to 30cents per word. In 2012, I started working with two editors, and they paid me 50cents per word. That means when quoting a client directly, I can go up to a dollar per word. With agencies, there tends to be a markup fee so I’d need to adjust my expectations slightly.
So check in with your fellow freelancers. Ask for their price ranges to get a feel of what you should be charging. Are your fees on par with your counterparts’? Or are you quoting more than what a mogul is charging?
Test the Waters
At this stage you would already have an idea your rates. Add another 15 to 20% to your estimate when quoting a client. When asked to lower your fees — and a lot of times you will have to — you can bring it down (in 5 to 10% tiers) before you reach your “original” quote.
Take heart when you receive some pushback on your quote. This means you’re not being taken for a ride. If all your clients happily agree to your quotes, it’s probably a sign that your fees are too low.
Of course, this largely depends on whom you’re quoting for: conglomerates or corporate entities usually have a bigger budget; government agencies have to be conservative with their spending; and new startups might not be able to afford you. The converse is also true: entrepreneurs might be most appreciative of what you do and they see the value of your work, hence they pay more. You never know.
Never Hastily Agree to a Ballpark Number
People love pressing me for a quote, but I’ve learnt to say this: “I will get back to you.” And you should do the same too. Never give your estimate over the phone or during the first meeting. You need time to mull it over. You will also need to discuss the specific job scope with your clients.
Take this scenario: A client wants to pay $1,000 for 10 articles. While the fees are low, I envision these to be straightforward articles that I could whip up in two days. Because I’m going on a vacation, this sum of money would determine if bread and butter would be my meals throughout the entire trip. And so I hastily agree to it.
And after a gentleman’s agreement, the client brings up the need to conduct face-to-face interviews with him, and that this project would stretch over the next 10 months.
Of course, I can negotiate or reject these terms but that would make for an unpleasant start. Likewise, when you acquiesce to a proposed quote over the phone, the agreement will likely bite you in the derriere later.
So how should you negotiate your fees? Stay tuned for the next instalment on quotes.
Soft whimpers emanate from behind a closed door. Those are my cue. I sigh. I steel myself. I pound on the door, like a collector about to barge in. The door cracks open. There stands a diminutive lady, wizened, like a withering flower long bereft of its shine. A flower long neglected and now stolen of its allure. My mother. Her head is stuck in the sleeve. I lose control. Again. I bluster as I extricate her from her sartorial shackles.
“You’re only 64 years old, not an 80-year-old woman.” These venomous words escape my mouth. I cannot help it. It probably would not be the last time these words spew out of my mouth. The sight of your mother, all diminished and defeated simply because she has difficulty dressing herself, can plunge you into the depths of sadness. In this moment, I choose anger. It’s easier: I know how to deal with anger.
My mother props herself up against the wall, now lamenting her state of mind.
“Adele… skip.” I fingered the next button on the Spotify app, making it the first time ever that I skipped an Adele song. The last thing I needed was the melancholy of Adele. I was not going to have a meltdown in front of uniformed strangers.
Before me was a pen tethered to a blue chipboard. Awaiting me was a multiple-page questionnaire. I didn’t know I was applying for a job here. I was no stranger to overly-lengthy questionnaires. The army makes me fill in one at the end of every reservist cycle, asking deeply-philosophical questions about loyalty and how I feel about being the nation’s sacrificial lamb.
I felt momentary relief when I read this line: “Have you ever yelled at the relative as a way of getting him/her to do something the right way?” My guilt was temporarily assuaged. There and then I knew I wasn’t the only one who did so. It was, for lack of a better word, normal. I wasn’t the devil incarnate.
The other pages of questions offered little comfort. I checked ‘yes’ in columns that read: “Reduced interest in hobbies”; “Repeats questions, stories or statements”; “Forgets day, date, month or year”; “Consistent problems with thinking and/or memory”; and more. It began with the little things. Her misplacing items, from her identification card (twice) to her wallet and even dentures. There was the incessant repetition of questions. With relatives around, we’d laugh (with good intentions). When left alone with her, everyone would find it exhausting to hold a conversation.
I of course knew much about dementia and the ugly symptoms it reared. After all, I have spent 11 years studying the topic. Okay, watching Grey’s Anatomy. Ellis Grey, erstwhile brilliant surgeon and mother of titular character Meredith Grey, had early Alzheimer’s. There is even speculation that Meredith had inherited her mother’s condition. I put two and two together. My relatives did too.
And finally after an hour of “pointless activities” — my mother’s words after she was put through an initial cognitive test — we were summoned to the doctor’s office. Her results for the cognitive test were not good. The doctor’s downcast countenance betrayed her attempt to remain upbeat.
“Unfortunately, it is dementia.” She then reconciled the test results with my personal account of my mother’s condition.
My mother took it surprisingly well. She said, almost too defensively, that her father had dementia too — true, but he was in his twilight years when that happened.
I too took the diagnosis well the whole time I was in the doctor’s office. It had been a long time coming. Why did we wait this long? I guess it was the binary of fear and hope. The fear that something really is wrong; and that last glimmer of hope that maybe it wasn’t our worst fears manifested. But now it’s official. It has a name. It’s real.
And just like that, I soared through the ranks to become a care-giver. As the youngest child, I was always the spoilt brat. Look ma, I’m all grown up. Oh, wait.
After the consultation, my mother still had to do a blood test and undergo a MRI. The doctor explained that they wanted to see if there had been strokes in the brain — and in my mind I was like, “Doctor, please. I watch Grey’s Anatomy. I know what a MRI is for.”
I beelined for the payment counter. There I sat, as the nurse took me through the schedules and payments. She spoke in a saccharine, uplifting voice. Through my peripheral vision I saw there were two nurses hovering. Their faces were stern. They were very quiet. That was when I felt the gravity of it all. I stifled a cry just in time with a deep breath.
When we reached home, I quizzed my mother on what transpired this morning. It was the second time I did so in one afternoon. “Do you remember what the doctor said? Do you know what your diagnosis is? Do you know why you were at the doctor’s?”
“For my ears.”
I honestly do not know if she does not remember. Maybe she does, but is just making up a wrong answer as a form of defence mechanism.
But maybe, just maybe, it’s good that she doesn’t.
“Because of you I’m ashamed of my life because it’s empty.” This line, plucked from Kelly Clarkson’s 2004 Because of You, lacerates my heart like a knife every time I listen to it. Actually, scratch that. Each line in this pensive song, written by Clarkson to cope with the emotional turmoil of her parents’ split, reduces me to a drunk, pitiful, slobbering train wreck. Even till this day, my heart still aches and the tears still flow whenever I hearken to the lyrics. It still transports me to a dark place.
Many people think I grew up in a wholesome family. I don’t blame them: I always have something funny to say. “Haha” rolls off my tongue. But my life isn’t a rosy picture. I didn’t grow up in a happy family. Birthdays go un-celebrated; Christmas is just another day at my house. I often wonder how much more fulfilling my life would be if I hailed from a happy family.
Growing up, there was always this feeling that I was on the outside, just peering in. I know how it feels to live life on the fringes of society. Yet, in a way, my childhood pains have also improved my outlook on life.
A Sense of Independence
Life wasn’t handed to me on a platter. I was 23 when I first got on an airplane — I had wanted to see P!nk at her Funhouse tour. I paid for the flight myself — I was still a struggling writer back then — and I went on a solo trip. Hitherto, the only other time I had been across the border was when I was nine, and my mother took me with her to consult a high priest in Malaysia for divine intervention to salvage her marriage.
Growing up, I didn’t have the best toys. I didn’t have a lot of toys. I led a cloistered life. Still do. But the message that no one, not even my parents, owes me a living internalised. And so today I don’t pin my failures on others. I don’t begrudge a boss for not caring about my career advancement. I don’t blame the government for not pushing out enough jobs. My failures are on me. If I’m caught in the doldrums of life, that’s on me. I go out and buy my own toys. I know what I want in life and I know how to get it.
Taking Things in Stride
I learnt to deal with pain at a young age. Or more aptly, I learnt to suppress pain at a young age. One time my mother so desperately yanked me out of the house: she was sputtering about how my dad was gonna come after her. We then sought refuge at a paternal relative’s house. The details are nebulous at best, but I will always have that memory of feeling very afraid.
When I was 19, I interned at an advertising agency and was screamed at every single day by my supervisor: the creative director. I’m not being vindictive here, but he was the office tyrant whom everyone sidestepped. It wasn’t because I was sleeping on the job, or was late, or was skiving. My ideas, which came from an untrained mind, simply fell short of his expectations. The thing is: I think I took his expletive-filled rampages really well. There was a big one where he yelled at full throttle — I left unscathed, I wasn’t even emotionally scarred, but horror swept the faces of my then-colleagues who were many years my senior.
I was only stressed about the fact that I wasn’t going to get an ‘A’ for my internship, and my entire career would hinge on that less-than-stellar grade — hey, at the time it was the only thing that mattered. (I eventually got a ‘B’ and my lecturer and I jumped for joy!)
My not-so-happy childhood experiences steeled me for a lifetime of taunting, awkward moments. And those moments were aplenty. My life wasn’t a bed of roses, so I didn’t have lofty expectations of the world. Failures are only ephemeral. I’m not invincible; I’m not impervious to criticism. People are going to say whatever they’re going to say. I just don’t beat myself up for things that are not within my control.
Loyalty
If you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours — that’s my motto. I know how volatile relationships can be — I discern that every single day of my life — and so I treasure the ones that really matter. I’m very loyal to people who treat me well. And I give back.
Just as I value my relationships, I also have no qualms about weeding out toxic ones. In recent years, I’ve had really amazing personal and professional relationships that soured for no rhyme or reason — not least a good one. And I let these relationships go easily and without regret. If someone doesn’t want you in his/her life, there’s really no point trying to claw your way back. If someone is no good to you, there’s no need to keep him or her around.
Happiness is a Choice
I remember this email which my high-school friend once sent me. It was one of those emails you circulated amongst your friends, and it was replete with personal trivia. This transpired during the noughties, a time before the intrusive permeation of Facebook. I was tagged under “Friend Whose Family I Envy”; and my family was described as “happy“. I snickered. It couldn’t have been any further from the truth.
I don’t know what gave her the impression, seeing how she had never met my family. But that was and still is my personality: cheerful and optimistic. It isn’t a facade. I didn’t choose to wallow in rancor. I didn’t let my circumstances dictate who I was and who I was going to be. I choose every day to be happy, to laugh. I’m a humourist. And I’m a better person for it.
