Skill Arbitrage Blog

This article reveals 4 powerful questions that will help you stop spreading yourself thin and start focusing on high-value clients and projects. You will learn how to align your work with what you love, increase your income, and do less while making more.

Previously in Collaborative Freelancing…

Raja and Savitha realized that solo hustling was draining their energy and limiting their potential. They decided to explore collaboration as a smarter way to grow their businesses. In this article, we’ll dive into the 4 key questions that will help you prioritize the right clients and projects, enabling you to do more of what you love while earning more.

(Continued…)

Raja, Savitha, and Harsh were hunched over their laptops in Swathi’s Anna Nagar office. The place looked like a Saravana Bhavan kitchen during peak Pongal rush—coffee mugs on top of bills on top of chargers, one suspiciously wet USB cable curled up in a sambar bowl (empty, hopefully), and someone’s sock drooping from the curtain rod like it had heatstroke. The AC hummed like an old MTC bus stuck in traffic, but the air inside still felt like Marina beach sand had been trapped in it.

Swathi stood at the door, arms crossed, one eyebrow in full Iyer mode. “Anyone eaten?” she asked, voice warm enough to care, but edged with that ‘don’t bullshit me’ tone every elder cousin in Chennai masters by age 14.

Nobody looked up.

“Not… yet,” Raja muttered, eyes still buried in a Notion doc that hadn’t synced in an hour. “Maybe after this round. Or next sprint. Whatever we’re calling this.”

Harsh clicked something, flinched, then perked up. “Abandoned cart flow! That’s what this is. We’re the emails. Client’s the cart. Just… rolling away.”

Savitha didn’t flinch. She was deep into rewrite number sixteen of a landing page for a founder who changed his brief like he changed his Twitter bio—once every two hours, usually under duress.

Swathi stepped in. Shut the door with her hip. No smile this time.

“You better be making lakhs for the amount of brain damage you’re inviting.”

“We will,” Raja said. “From the next one onwar—”

“Stop,” Swathi cut in. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”

Savitha snorted. “The next one always pays better,” she said, still typing. “Just like Chennai Metro is almost done.”

Harsh leaned back, cracked his knuckles like he was revving a Royal Enfield. “It’s like a re-engagement campaign. Keep mailing. Keep praying. Hope somebody opens it and doesn’t mark you spam.”

Swathi wasn’t smiling.

She looked at Raja. And then kept looking. Too long.

“I don’t get it. You’re all turning into… autoresponders. Zombie versions. No food. No breaks. Just caffeine and Ctrl+Z. Why? For what? Tambaram-tier clients with Pondy Bazaar budgets?”

Raja didn’t answer.

“You said that already,” he mumbled, rubbing his forehead.

“And I’ll say it again,” Swathi snapped. “Because you didn’t listen the first time. You’re doing too much. For people who’d replace you with ChatGPT if it had a GPay QR code.”

A beat.

“Okay,” Raja said. “So what? Fire half our clients? Shut shop and open a Sundal stall in Marina?”

Savitha raised one eyebrow. “Wait, is this a TED Talk or an intervention?”

Swathi ignored her. She scanned their faces, the way a school principal looks at a last-bench trio caught with Lays packets in tiffin boxes.

“Raja. Wouldn’t you rather write those scissor-things you’re always raving about? The ones that slice the internet in half and give brands that… thing? What’s it called… virality with consequences?”

Raja blinked. “Y-yeah. Obviously.”

She turned to Savitha. “And you. You love… fashion, beauty, drama. Not ghostwriting for tech bros who think branding is just choosing between Royal Blue and… what’s that other one?”

“Midnight Azure,” Savitha whispered. “Every. Damn. Time.”

Then to Harsh. “And you. Don’t you want clients who treat you like a strategist? Not like an email vending machine where they type ‘sequence’ and expect conversions?”

Harsh raised a hand. “I’d write a plain-text welcome series. No GIFs. No emojis. Just cold-blooded CTA perfection.”

Swathi nodded once. “Then why the hell are you all buried in work you’d rather set on fire, for clients who pay less than your broadband bill?”

No one spoke.

So she kept going.

“You need to ask yourselves four things. Wait, hang on—”

She pulled out her phone. It slipped. She caught it. “—Okay, yeah. Four questions. The right four.”

She paused. Looked at each one like she was doing a mental attestation.

“Because otherwise? You’ll keep saying yes to the next project. The next scope creep. The next founder who promises equity instead of invoices. You’ll drown in… ‘maybe this one’s better.’”

She dragged a chair closer. Sat down. Cracked her knuckles the way her grandmother did before scolding the maid.

“Let’s fix that.”

Question 1. – Who is your dream client?

Swathi leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, looking like a Mylapore auntie who’d just walked into a messy kolam competition. “Let’s start stupid simple. Who’s your dream client?”

Harsh didn’t even look up. “Someone who pays on time and doesn’t ask me to make every email ‘more quirk—’”

He threw in air quotes with enough force to start a minor cyclone.

Swathi raised one eyebrow. “Cute. Not helpful.”

Raja squinted at the ceiling like the old fan above was going to drop divine answers. “Honestly, we’re just saying yes to whoever pops into the inbox. Like—pfft—‘Do I even like this guy?’ Never asked it.”

“Yup,” Harsh muttered. “It’s like handing out house keys to anyone with an email ID.”

Savitha straightened up like she’d just remembered her back had structure. “Okay, but what even is a dream client? Like… someone with money? Or…?”

“No,” Swathi said. “That’s just—table stakes. Dream client means their brief doesn’t make your soul leak out your nose.”

Raja snorted.

“It means,” she continued, “you don’t finish the Zoom call and immediately fantasize about quitting LinkedIn and running a thengai stall outside Besant Nagar Beach.”

A pause.

Long enough for Harsh to take a sip of his Bru Gold and wince. “Cold.”

Raja blinked slow. “So it’s not about budget. It’s about belief.”

Swathi leaned forward. “Yes. Exactly. You want a client who sees the world like you do. Or at least wants to. Or at least lies well.”

She grabbed a pen from somewhere—probably Harsh’s notebook—and yanked a crumpled A4 like it was a medical prescription.

“Write it down,” she barked. “Industry. Values. Team size. Whether they abuse Slack emojis. I want everything short of their blood type.”

Harsh looked up. “Wait—this is like… a client persona, right?”

Swathi didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, email boy. Make it a sequence. Add a retargeting layer. Call it Susan. Just. Write.”

Everyone scrambled like the invigilator at MCC had just said: ‘Five minutes left.’

Savitha spoke first. Didn’t look up. “I want beauty founders who understand brand equity. Not virality junkies who think one reel equals legacy.”

Swathi grinned. “Now that—that’s got thanni in it.”

Raja clicked his pen like he was scoring a point. “I want founders who take bold positions. Plant a flag. Say ‘This is us. Don’t like it? Cool, go choke on your vanilla.’”

“Brraavoo,” Swathi said, mock-clapping. “Finally some spine.”

Harsh scratched something messy on the page. “I want B2B SaaS founders who treat email like a business lever. Not… like… some Friday afterthought. People who understand positioning’s not just what you say—it’s how you follow up. And follow through.”

Swathi actually smiled. The rare, approval-grade one. She leaned in and circled something on Raja’s sheet—maybe a phrase, maybe a spelling mistake.

“There. That’s the line. If you don’t know who you want, you’ll say yes to anyone. And ‘anyone’ will drain you faster than a Chennai EB bill in May.”

Raja looked up. Slower this time. “So we’re not just looking for someone to pay us?”

“Nope,” Swathi said. “You’re looking for someone who sharpens you. Otherwise, you’re just stacking gigs like dosa at Murugan Idli Shop. One day you look up and wonder why everything tastes like sambar.”

The room went quiet. Not burnt-out quiet. Not-can’t-breathe quiet.

More like… okay-now-we-heard-it quiet.

Question 2 – Where are they hanging out?

Swathi pointed at the whiteboard like she was about to fling chalk at someone’s forehead. “Alright. You’ve written down your dream clients. Cute. Now—where the hell are they hiding?”

Harsh didn’t look up. Just hunched deeper into his laptop like a goblin under Anna Flyover. “They’re not hiding. We’re just look—looking in all the wrong bloody places. Like yelling ‘premium skincare founder’ into the Instagram void and getting back… DJs. And that one guy who makes motivational reels with his chappal in frame.”

Savitha groaned, actually clutched her forehead. “I’ve been posting! Reels, carousels, I even tried that trending audio where everyone fake-walks like they’re in Nungambakkam. It’s just other freelancers replying with ‘Let’s collab sis 💅’ and fire emojis. I don’t need sisters. I need clients who pay on invoice, not hugs.”

Swathi raised a brow, slow and sharp. “Then maybe your clients aren’t on Instagram, Einstein. Maybe they’re somewhere sadder. Your dream client is sitting somewhere right now, eye twitching, wondering why their campaign tanked. Your job? Figure out where they’re ranting about it.”

Raja leaned forward like he was sniffing out clues. “So not where they’re tryna look cool. Where they feel… cornered. Sweaty. Like—Velachery traffic sweaty.”

“Exactly.” Swathi’s voice clipped out the word like a knife. “Look for where the frustration lives. Where it festers. Where no one’s selling, and everyone’s secretly begging for help.”

Harsh perked up. “Customer support hell threads. Founders sobbing on Twitter at 2 am. Or that guy—oh my god—that guy who keeps ranting about churn on Reddit because Mailchimp nuked his automation. Poor—bast—no wait, poor him.”

Savitha was typing furiously now. “Also that skincare Slack group I joined? Full of founders crying that their ads are converting worse than their chithi’s WhatsApp forwards. One even said she got more leads from her cousin’s wedding invite.”

“Now we’re talking.” Raja started tapping his pen like it was a Morse code machine. “And those weird mastermind Zoom calls? Where everyone looks like they haven’t slept since 2021 but still say ‘We hit 7 figures, lol’? That’s where they’re desperate.”

Swathi turned back to the board and started drawing with manic energy—three jagged columns that looked like mountain ranges or ECGs.

“Let’s map this. Where do they: One—complain. Two—ask for help. And three…”

“Lurk,” Savitha muttered, still typing. “Lurk but never post. Classic founder move.”

Under Complain, they scribbled: Reddit, Twitter, closed FB groups that no one admits they’re in.

Under Ask for Help: Slack channels, Discords where every username is a pun, founder masterminds hosted by someone’s ex-agency partner.

Under Lurk: Substack comment sections. Niche YouTube channels with 814 views. LinkedIn threads that make you question the algorithm and your life.

Harsh finally looked up. “Also—just stalk your competitors. Not in a creepy way. Wait. Actually. A little creepy. Like… Chennai-creepy. Checking their followers. Who tags them. Who replies.”

“That’s not stalking,” Raja grinned. “That’s strategy. Also known as: work smarter, not louder.”

Swathi capped the marker with a snap. “You don’t need to scream into the void hoping someone throws a like. Just go stand where they’re already squinting for help. Stand there. With a sign.”

Harsh squinted. “Like a real sign, or—”

“Not a literal sign, Murugan. A post. A comment. A pitch. Something that makes their brain go ‘oh thank god, this person gets it.’”

Question 3 – What bait can you use to attract them?

Swathi poured herself a third coffee and didn’t even pretend to sip it slow. She winced. “This thing tastes like it was brewed in a T.Nagar auto garage. Anyway—so you know who they are and where they hang out. Now the real question—what are you dangling in front of them?”

“Bait,” Raja blurted. Like he’d been waiting all day to play that card.

Harsh perked up. “YES. Finally. My domain. Lead magnets. Tripwires. Irresistible offers. This is… this is foreplay for email marketers.”

Savitha didn’t even blink. “That’s disgusting. You’re disgusting.”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Harsh grinned. “Most people think bait means a sad free ebook no one asked for or those ‘subscribe for updates’ popups that feel like cold fries from Adayar Ananda Bhavan.”

Swathi snorted. “The ones where the CTA button says ‘Get Inspired’?”

“Exactly!” Harsh slapped the desk. “That’s rookie nonsense. Real bait feels like blackmail. Like someone snuck into your brain, found your worst insecurity, and held it up under tube light in Parry’s Corner.”

Savitha made a face. “Dramatic.”

“But true,” Raja said, cracking his knuckles. “If it doesn’t sting, it doesn’t stick.”

Swathi leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Okay, fine. Let’s say I’m your dream client. Retention manager. Half-dead. Running on kaapi and cortisol. Crying about email open rates.”

“You don’t give her a damn 20-page whitepaper,” Harsh interrupted, flinging his pen with zero coordination. It hit his laptop and bounced. “You give her a teardown. In public. With taste. Something that makes her go, ‘Wow. Okay. Rude—but accurate.’”

“Or,” Raja said, tapping his forehead like the ideas were leaking out, “a sharp one-pager: ‘5 ways your abandoned cart emails are leaking money.’ Punchy. Useful. Feels like an ex who still knows your WiFi password.”

“I could do one for fashion founders,” Savitha muttered, eyes glued to her screen. “Like, ‘How one product page rewrite tripled trial customres—customers.’ Ugh. Typo. Fixed. With screenshots. With receipts. Make it feel like they’re eavesdropping on a transformation.”

Swathi grinned. “So the bait isn’t a bribe. It’s a blood test.”

“Exactly,” Raja said. “It says, ‘I know your kind. I’ve solved this. I’m not experimenting on you.’”

Harsh had already zoned out, fingers flying. “Let’s just map it. One bait per dream client. No vague freebies. No ‘Ultimate Guide to Optimizing Your Mindset’ crap.”

Swathi walked to the whiteboard and wrote:

---

DTC founders → “Audit: Is your welcome email quietly killing your repeat purchase rate?”

Coaches with funnels → “Mini teardown: Your lead magnet sucks (and here’s why)”

Luxury skincare brands → “Founder’s Diary: The story that made 6x more people try our ₹2,500 serum”

---

“Bait is a mirror,” Harsh mumbled. “They need to see themselves flinching. Before you even ask for their trust.”

Swathi finished the last drop of coffee and gagged. “That is so bitter.”

“So is spending ₹12,000 on ads to promote a PDF no one reads,” Harsh said, deadpan.

“Valid,” Savitha muttered. “Painfully valid.”

Raja stood up, stretched, then stared out the window. “What if we printed this out and just stuck it near Gopalapuram CCD? That’s where at least two ex-clients of mine go to work on their ‘funnels’ and watch Andrew Tate shorts.”

“God save us,” Swathi said. “But yeah. Let’s bait the right people. And only the right people. The rest can scroll.”

Question 4 – What result can you create for them?

The room fell into one of those awkward Chennai silences—like post-rain power cut at 3 p.m., inverter’s whining, fan’s dead, and no one wants to move. Everyone stared at the mess on the table—dream clients, bait, scribbles in four different handwritings—but something was still… wrong. Like you’re on the broken steps near Besant Nagar beach, wind in your face, and you should jump into the next idea. But your brain says, “Eh, not yet.”

Swathi exhaled sharply. “Okay. Real talk. What do they actually get in the end?”

Harsh, still squinting at his laptop like it owed him money, muttered, “Emails.”

“No ya,” Swathi snapped. “What do they get from the emails?”

Harsh paused, blinked. “…More money?”

Raja groaned, loud. “That’s the most boring answer in the world, man. That’s like saying biryani is just rice.”

Savitha smirked. “Is just rice,” she whispered, evil.

“You take that back,” Raja said, spinning toward her. “Thalappakatti would like a word.”

“Focus,” Swathi cut in. “Seriously. What do we actually give them? It’s not just ROI.”

Raja stood, ran his hand through his hair, then slammed a whiteboard marker against the table. The cap flew off and hit the wall. “We need teeth. Stakes. You want someone to trust you? Make them feel like not trusting you is a liability.”

Savitha finally looked up from her phone. Her screen showed an Instagram DM from a frustrated beauty founder. She read it aloud: ‘Nobody’s talking about my launch. I feel invisible.’ Then, calmly: “When I rewrote her story, influencers started tagging her for free. The serum didn’t change. Just the way she told it. That’s what they pay us for. To not be invisible.”

Raja didn’t wait. He turned and scrawled, jagged and all caps:

DON’T SELL THE THING. SELL WHAT THE THING DOES.

Then underlined “DOES” so hard the whiteboard squeaked.

He turned to Harsh, fire in his eyes. “Okay. For real. Someone nails their emails. What happens?”

Harsh cracked his knuckles. “Retention goes up. CAC drops. Founders stop waking up at—wait—waiking up at… dammit—waking up at 3 a.m., checking if Meta’s eaten their ad budget again.”

Swathi gave a grim little laugh. “They’re buying sleep.”

“Peace of mind,” Raja added. “That their backend isn’t a trainwreck. That the system works even if they’re off grid in Kodaikanal for a weekend.”

Savitha chimed in, soft but certain. “That their buyers come back. Not because of a discount. But because they remembered. Something you said. Something they felt.”

Nobody spoke for a bit. Even the wall clock’s tick sounded louder. Then Savitha broke it.

“We’re idiots,” she said. “We made this too complicated.”

Raja started pacing. Murmuring half-formed phrases like a man possessed.

“I help post-PMF founders build a reliable second income stream without launching every 3 weeks.”

“I help bougie DTC brands turn cold visitors into trial customers in one scroll.”

“I help boring-ass service businesses sound like the only authority worth calling.”

Harsh typed without looking, his fingers moving like he was in a trance. “This isn’t copy. This is CPR. For dying funnels.”

Swathi checked her phone. “It’s 2:15. Are we working through lunch, or are we pretending air is food?”

“Food sounds… functional,” Raja said, still staring at the board.

“Pizza,” Harsh declared.

“Bleh. Butter chicken,” Savitha said, already opening Zomato.

Raja didn’t even flinch. “Pasta.”

Harsh banged the table. “Pizza has the highest CTR of comfort food!”

“CTR?” Swathi blinked.

“Crave-to-Request ratio,” he grinned.

Swathi facepalmed. “This is why I shouldn’t hang out with marketers. You all turn meals into funnels.”

The room broke into real laughter. Not polite. Stupid, snorting, belly-deep laughter. The kind that spills out in Saravana Bhavan when someone drops sambhar on their pants and doesn’t care.

Swathi grabbed her bag and pointed to the door. “Enough. We’re going to Moonrakers or I’m reporting all of you to your mothers.”

“But—” Raja started.

“No buts. You want clarity? Get carbs.”

The three of them followed her out, leaving the battlefield of Post-Its and cold coffee behind. For once, their stomachs and minds wanted the same thing.

(To be continued…)