t. Instead it was an ad hoc celebration that occurred on the phone and over dinner, and lasted from mid-summer until well into October. The lengthy guest list included such luminaries as other freelance "worst-market-in-15 years" writers; graphic "clients-just-aren't-spending-money" designers; and software "we're-wondering-how-to-make-it-through-December" executivesSometime last summer I decided to host a pity party and invite all my friends. Well, not all my friends, exactly. Only those whose livelihoods might have, like mine, been suffering from the downward slide of the economy. To make the guest list, invitees would have to possess the ability to grumble, gripe, groan, fuss, snarl, scream, fret, rant and complain -- preferably all at the same time. I wanted world-class whiners at my party. Optimists need not apply.

The idea for the party came about following several back-to-back conversations with different editors, all of whom relayed to me different versions of the same scenario: advertising sales are down, there are fewer magazines pages to fill, so we don't have as many assignments for contract writers like you. Almost overnight, or so it seemed, the regular work I'd come to count on disappeared. "Sorry," my editors said. "But do keep in touch."

But I didn’t. And instead of bucking up and marketing myself to new clients, instead of choosing to view this "challenge" as an "opportunity" like I'd been taught in so many motivational seminars, I chose to complain. Loudly. With great chest-heaving drama. Picture Joan Crawford, wrist to forehead, lying in a bed strewn with movie magazines and you have some idea of my approach. Why tire myself getting new business, I argued, when sympathy was so much easier to elicit?

The beauty of my pity party was that it was not time- or location-dependent. Instead it was an ad hoc celebration that occurred on the phone and over dinner, and lasted from mid-summer until well into October. The lengthy guest list included such luminaries as other freelance "worst-market-in-15 years" writers; graphic "clients-just-aren't-spending-money" designers; and software "we're-wondering-how-to-make-it-through-December" executives.

ably all at the same time. I wanted world-class whiners at my party. Optimists need not apply.

The idea for the party came about following several back-to-back conversations with different editors, all of whom relayed to me different versions of the same scenario: advertising sales are down, there are fewer magazines pages to fill, so we don't have as many assignments for contract writers like you. Almost overnight, or so it seemed, the regular work I'd come to count on disappeared. "Sorry," my editors said. "But do keep in touch."

But I didn’t. And instead of bucking up and marketing myself to new clients, instead of choosing to view this "challenge" as an "opportunity" like I'd been taught in so many motivational seminars, I chose to complain. Loudly. With great chest-heaving drama. Picture Joan Crawford, wrist to forehead, lying in a bed strewn with movie magazines and you have some idea of my approach. Why tire myself getting new business, I argued, when sympathy was so much easier to elicit?

The beauty of my pity party was that it was not time- or location-dependent. Instead it was an ad hoc celebration that occurred on the phone and over dinner, and lasted from mid-summer until well into October. The lengthy guest list included such luminaries as other freelance "worst-market-in-15 years" writers; graphic "clients-just-aren't-spending-money" designers; and software "we're-wondering-how-to-make-it-through-December" executives

ignments for contract writers like you. Almost overnight, or so it seemed, the regular work I'd come to count on disappeared. "Sorry," my editors said. "But do keep in touch."

But I didn’t. And instead of bucking up and marketing myself to new clients, instead of choosing to view this "challenge" as an "opportunity" like I'd been taught in so many motivational seminars, I chose to complain. Loudly. With great chest-heaving drama. Picture Joan Crawford, wrist to forehead, lying in a bed strewn with movie magazines and you have some idea of my approach. Why tire myself getting new business, I argued, when sympathy was so much easier to elicit?

The beauty of my pity party was that it was not time- or location-dependent. Instead it was an ad hoc celebration that occurred on the phone and over dinner, and lasted from mid-summer until well into October. The lengthy guest list included such luminaries as other freelance "worst-market-in-15 years" writers; graphic "clients-just-aren't-spending-money" designers; and software "we're-wondering-how-to-make-it-through-December" executives

seminars, I chose to complain. Loudly. With great chest-heaving drama. Picture Joan Crawford, wrist to forehead, lying in a bed strewn with movie magazines and you have some idea of my approach. Why tire myself getting new business, I argued, when sympathy was so much easier to elicit?

The beauty of my pity party was that it was not time- or location-dependent. Instead it was an ad hoc celebration that occurred on the phone and over dinner, and lasted from mid-summer until well into October. The lengthy guest list included such luminaries as other freelance "worst-market-in-15 years" writers; graphic "clients-just-aren't-spending-money" designers; and software "we're-wondering-how-to-make-it-through-December" executives

t. Instead it was an ad hoc celebration that occurred on the phone and over dinner, and lasted from mid-summer until well into October. The lengthy guest list included such luminaries as other freelance "worst-market-in-15 years" writers; graphic "clients-just-aren't-spending-money" designers; and software "we're-wondering-how-to-make-it-through-December" executives. These people made the cut because I knew they'd confirm my belief that the economy was in the toilet and there was no work to be found. Anyone whose work might be humming along as usual or, worse yet, improving -- this includes criminal lawyers and unemployment counselors -- were conveniently left off the invitation list.

Whenever I met a fellow partygoer I'd ask, perhaps a bit too eagerly: "So how bad is it? Any bill collectors yet? Tell me again about losing that contract and this time don't leave anything out."

It was such a bad case of selective perception that I interpreted everything around me as proof that work was not available. I'd spot smiling families playing in the park and assume the parents must've lost their jobs. I'd see people laughing at restaurants and assume they were drunk, probably as a way of masking their deep internal misery.

I was so convinced I'd never be hired for another writing assignment that I stopped even trying to find work. I didn't call any of my corporate clients. I didn't pitch new story ideas to editors. Instead, I stayed home, played computer solitaire and wished I'd saved more money.

Then, I met with my personal coach, a wise and wonderful woman whom I pay to keep me on track in life.

"Shari," she said gently. "All of us create our own realities. Your situation seems hopeless because that's how you've decided it should be. How would you act if you knew the economy was good and