Since leaving my office job and working from home as a full-time author, I’ve realised I could do with a little help to increase my productivity. As a sole trader, you might say I’m the executive of my home office: an executive in Ugg boots and flannelette pants. I make the big decisions (when to have coffee, what time to eat lunch). And how do executives stay adaptable, agile and organised?
They have an assistant.
I consider advertising for this position, but since the average author in Australia makes A$18,200 a year (no, I did not forget a zero), I realise that would be delusional and I ought to utilise my one semi-marketable skill: my creativity. I look around the house to see who is available.
Teenage children? Lacking some of that can-do attitude. They certainly know how to hit the ground running when I ask them to help out.
Partner? He loves a spreadsheet and laminator but his attention to detail frankly annoys me. Besides, he’s managing his own company, which has a slightly higher turnover than my own.
How much higher? Listen, it’s not a competition.
I’m running out of options when my eyes settle just beside my office chair, which is also centimetres from the space heater. Where the dog is fast asleep on his dog bed, an assortment of balls and squeaky toys and plastic bits from the recycling strewn around him. His paws twitch while he dreams.
Dreams of what, you ask? A successful career liaising with stakeholders and facilitating communications for a thought leader. I’ve found my new executive assistant.
“Jupiter,” I say, as his eyelids flicker and open. “Do you have strong time-management skills and an ability to anticipate outcomes?”
He does always manage to trot into the kitchen when I’ve poured my cereal in the morning (he likes to drink the milk left in the bowl afterwards). And he finds the warmest spot in the house throughout the day in winter.
“Can you receive and screen visitors and routinely perform a wide variety of support duties, achieving deliverables?” I ask.
Jupiter watches the street to anticipate the mail delivery every day, and barks incessantly when a package or a visitor arrives. He also barks when another dog walks past, a man gets out of a car, a person carrying a bag or suitcase walks past, or our neighbours receive a visitor. He sits beside my chair with doleful eyes and places a paw on my lap when it is time to go for a walk. “Park it,” he seems to be saying. “Let’s circle back to that tree down the street.”
“What are your other core competencies?” I ask my dog, though he appears to have gone back to sleep. He is excellent at maintaining confidential and sensitive information. I’ve never heard him report to the rest of the family that I napped between one and two in the afternoon or watched an episode of Alone Australia instead of working on my next novel.
He’s not great at taking minutes during my Zoom meetings or classes, when he either tries to dig a hole in the carpet, tosses a toy around the office or barks at the leaves blowing past on the street.
“We’ll put that on the back burner,” I say. “We can touch base later on those deliverables. But in the meantime the job is yours if you want it. Inclusive of super. Super long walks, that is. You’ll be paid in kibble, liver treats and cereal milk. Are you ready to sign a contract?”
Jupiter wakes up and stretches, going to stare out of the window. It must be nearly mail delivery time. We’ll have to do our onboarding later. Plenty of actionable items on the agenda today.
First lunch, possibly a nap, and later, a nice long walk.
• Eleanor Limprecht is the author of What Was Left, Long Bay, The Passengers and The Coast
