Though his longer essays never fail to entertain and educate, this is one of my favorite-of-all-time pieces from John Forde.

Because when it comes to the world of paid writing, of Barefoot Writer bliss, there’s a lot to love: getting paid, obviously… the freedom to work where you choose, on projects you enjoy… all the “free” stuff that comes with writing (especially travel writing)…

But the real benefits? The best of the best?

Those are the things that can’t be bought or replaced, but make life completely worth living.

Read on and you’ll see exactly what I mean.

To your writing success,

Mindy

The Best “Barefoot” Perks? If You Ask Me, They’re Invisible

By John Forde

There’s a line from a French World War II pilot turned writer that goes, “On ne voit bien qu’avec le cœur. L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.”

I know. How pretentious does this guy get, opening with French?

Get ready to groan even louder, as I translate. The line comes from the book, The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and what it says is, “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

I promised my friend Mindy and AWAI I’d tell you about a little of the Glicken that’s iced my own writing cake, over the years. To tell the truth, there’s been a lot. And when I reflected on the list this morning, it’s that line that kept popping into mind.

But first, let me give you a bit of the expected type of reply.

Bright Lights, Big City

Once, thanks to a writing assignment for the International Living newsletter, I scored a full weekend at one of Manhattan’s top hotels, in a suite about double the size of the Baltimore apartment I lived in at the time.

I wanted to impress a girlfriend with a weekend on Broadway, but it was early in my career and a bit above my budget. So I came up with a story idea and wrote to both the hotel and the editorial team. Honestly, I was surprised when it came through.

I was also surprised when we walked into our suite.

Champagne and a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries on the table. Flowers for us in the living room. Thick robes and a personal card from the hotel manager, welcoming us. They laid it on thick.

Possibly a bit too thick. But there it was.

Romantic Vienna, On Someone Else’s Dime

Some years later, I did the same when my wife and I wanted to take an anniversary trip to Vienna — with our nearly two-year-old son along for the ride.

We came up with an article idea called, “Love Plus One: Romantic Vienna with Child in Tow.” I wrote the article, my wife took the pictures of us enjoying the city.

Before it was done, we’d earned a long weekend in a hotel — with a complimentary babysitter for one of the nights — plus a romantic dinner at a nearby café. As a bonus, the publication fee for the article was enough to cover our plane fare.

Oh, and once I wrote a three-stanza poem for a Bass Ale contest that won me a “pub tour” around the world, with $10,000 in spending money to sweeten the deal.

But that’s a story for another day.

When I really think about writing-life Glicken, though, I think back to my opening quote. And really, it’s the invisible things — the abstract perks of the Barefoot Writer’s life that I’ve loved best, above any free trips, dinners, free products, and the rest.

And what are those, exactly?

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The Invisible Essentials

The last time I worked in an office, my wife was days from delivering our daughter. I only borrowed office space, so I didn’t really need to report to anybody. But I called in just the same, to say I’d be staying home until after the baby was born, in case of a sudden ride to the hospital.

In France, where our daughter was born and where we — both Americans — choose to live for a good bit of the year, they keep you in the hospital for at least five days after a birth. So what the heck, I figured, if I can work anywhere ... why not make the best of it?

I haven’t been back to that office since — and our daughter turns eight in October.

When I talk to my friends from college or even high school, there’s nothing better to hear than they’ve got great careers and they’re doing well. But too often, it comes at a high price. Long commutes and long hours preclude a shocking amount of family time along the way.

Sappy as it might sound, the whole experience of fatherhood — one I might have missed, if not for my wife’s encouragement — took me by surprise. That is, I had no idea I’d be such a sucker for it. I love it even better than writing. And luckily, this way of working maximizes my chance to be a part of it.

My own father, I should note, was a great dad and great man, as much a part of our lives as he could be. But he didn’t work like this. He was a lawyer with a commute to downtown Philly every morning, on a train that left at 6:45 a.m. Every night, he insisted on getting back for dinner, but it still wasn’t until after 6 p.m.

Relative to what most people do, that’s a great schedule. But not a perfect one. How many breakfast mornings did it force him to miss? And how much time did we spend looking at the window at the back gate, waiting for him to get home? We did the math on his commutes alone. In 34 years of working, he spent over 12,750 hours in transit. Now that he’s gone, how much would we love to have those hours back?

For me, there’s a different commute: Every morning, my wife and I walk the kids to school. I go for a run afterward. Or we both walk back to the apartment, have a coffee together, and I set up to work in the living room. Lunch is local, at a café two doors away. After school, the kids stop in to say hi and tell me about their day.

Of course, it only works with help — both my wife and kids jealously guard my working hours, as much or more than I do. That’s huge. But now that we’ve worked that out, it opens doors on other opportunities too. For instance, a lot more family travel.

We’ve done a lot together — a hilltop villa in Greece, 10 days in a Barcelona apartment, trips to London, a house with family in western Ireland, and so on — and we’ve got more planned for this year, including a week at the beach and another in the Luberon, over the summer, plus trips to Germany and London planned for the fall.

All but one are working vacations. But that’s better than it sounds. During conferences, I’ll teach while they play. Then we’ll meet up to explore. When it’s just writing, I’ll get up at dawn and work until lunch. After that, we’re free to hang out together. Frankly, while the kids are still young enough to allow it, I can’t imagine living any other way.

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Barefoot Writer

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