The unfortunate thing about working for yourself is that you have

Host: The morning fog rolled low across the harbor, wrapping the city in a pale, silvery shroud. The faint clang of a buoy drifted through the mist, mingling with the hum of early commuters and the quiet creak of old wooden docks.

In a small warehouse office at the edge of the pier, the faint glow of a computer screen flickered against stacks of papers, coffee cups, and blueprints.

Jack sat hunched over his desk, his sharp face shadowed by exhaustion. His shirt was wrinkled, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a three-day stubble traced the outline of a man who’d been chasing time instead of sleep.

Jeeny leaned against the doorframe, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug. Her dark eyes softened as she watched him — not with pity, but with a quiet understanding that only comes from loving someone who never stops moving.

On the wall above his cluttered desk hung a yellowed paper with a single quote scrawled in ink:

“The unfortunate thing about working for yourself is that you have the worst boss in the world. I work every day of the year except at Christmas, when I work a half day.”
— David Eddings

Jeeny: “You’ve read that a hundred times, Jack. Still doesn’t scare you off?”

Jack: “It’s not supposed to scare me.” (He rubs his eyes, then leans back in the chair.) “It’s just... true. Eddings got it. When you’re your own boss, you don’t get freedom — you get a dictatorship. And the tyrant never sleeps.”

Host: A faint light broke through the fog, casting long shadows across the papers scattered on his desk — sketches, invoices, scribbled ideas, half-formed dreams.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like suffering is noble. You work every day, Jack. Seven days a week. No breaks, no nights off. What are you trying to prove?”

Jack: “That I can build something that lasts.”

Jeeny: “At the cost of yourself?”

Jack: (gruffly) “That’s the only cost that matters.”

Host: Jeeny walked in, her footsteps soft on the wooden floor. The faint hum of the sea outside echoed like an unseen metronome, ticking with the rhythm of their tension.

Jeeny: “David Eddings was a novelist. He wrote fantasy — worlds full of magic and heroes. And even he knew that working for yourself could be a curse. You think it’s different for you because you’re not writing stories?”

Jack: “I am writing stories. Just not the kind that end with dragons and crowns. These blueprints — this business — it’s my story.”

Jeeny: “Then write a better ending.”

Host: The words hit him like a wave against stone — not hard, but persistent. He sighed, the sound escaping like air from an old tire.

Jack: “You don’t understand. When you work for someone else, you sell your hours. When you work for yourself, you sell your soul — but at least you get to choose the price.”

Jeeny: “And who’s buying, Jack? Who are you doing this for?”

Jack: “For the man I was before I failed.”

Host: A long pause. Outside, a seagull cried — sharp and lonely.

Jeeny: “You think failure was the problem. But it wasn’t. The problem is that you never forgave yourself for it.”

Jack: “Forgiveness doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: “Neither does obsession.”

Host: The fog began to thin, revealing slivers of morning light cutting through the window blinds, striping the floor like prison bars. Jack stared at them for a long moment before speaking.

Jack: “You ever think maybe Eddings was wrong?”

Jeeny: “About what?”

Jack: “About being your own worst boss. Maybe the worst boss isn’t the one who overworks you — it’s the one who stops believing in you.”

Jeeny: “And which one are you?”

Jack: “Both.”

Host: Jeeny set down her mug and sat on the edge of his desk. The steam from her coffee curled up like a quiet ghost between them.

Jeeny: “When was the last time you took a real break?”

Jack: “Last Christmas.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “Worked half a day.”

Host: She laughed softly, though it wasn’t humor — more like disbelief wrapped in affection.

Jeeny: “You sound proud of that.”

Jack: “Maybe I am. Eddings was. He understood the price. Every creator does. You don’t get to make something meaningful without giving up comfort.”

Jeeny: “But meaning doesn’t live in exhaustion, Jack. It dies there. You’re chasing permanence through burnout.”

Jack: “And what’s the alternative? Mediocrity? Nine-to-five comfort? You think greatness comes from balance?”

Jeeny: “No, but it survives through it. Even Eddings knew when to stop. He had Christmas. You can’t even have Sunday.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked — slow, unyielding, merciless. Jack’s fingers traced the rim of his coffee cup.

Jack: “If I stop, Jeeny, the silence gets too loud.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what you need to hear.”

Host: The words hung heavy between them — truth wrapped in compassion. Outside, the first hints of sunlight kissed the harbor, turning the waves into sheets of liquid gold.

Jack: “You ever wonder why people like Eddings worked so hard? He wasn’t chasing money. He was chasing a world that didn’t exist yet. Same as me.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re not chasing freedom, Jack — you’re chasing control. You build because you’re afraid to stand still.”

Jack: “Standing still is death.”

Jeeny: “No. Standing still is reflection.”

Host: Her voice softened. She reached out, gently turning off his computer screen. The glow vanished, and the room suddenly felt real again — illuminated only by the sun filtering through the mist.

Jeeny: “There. Look. The world didn’t end.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Yet.”

Jeeny: “You can laugh, but deep down you know Eddings wasn’t glorifying it. He was confessing it — that he couldn’t stop. That being your own boss means never escaping your own demands. That’s not strength, Jack. That’s captivity disguised as ambition.”

Jack: “So what do you want me to do? Walk away? Pretend this doesn’t matter?”

Jeeny: “No. I want you to rest so it can matter.”

Host: Jack looked out the window. The fog had finally cleared, revealing the wide expanse of sea beyond — infinite, restless, beautiful. His reflection overlapped with it in the glass, a ghost caught between drive and peace.

Jack: “You know, I used to think success was about freedom. About not answering to anyone.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think success is about learning how to stop answering to yourself.”

Jeeny: “Then start today.”

Jack: “Can’t. Too much work.”

Jeeny: “Then start at Christmas.”

Jack: (smirks) “Half day.”

Host: She smiled — tired but genuine. They both laughed, softly, like survivors of the same quiet war.

Outside, a ship’s horn sounded across the bay — long, low, mournful, and full of promise.

Host: And in that fragile dawn, David Eddings’ words hung like a mirror over their lives —
a truth carved not in pride, but in warning:

that when you work for yourself, the danger isn’t the labor —
it’s the loneliness of never being off the clock,
and the courage it takes to remember
that rest is not surrender — it’s the only way to make creation breathe again.