We earned $51,000 a year on average as Airbnb superhosts before COVID-19. Here's how we priced and furnished our rental to optimize bookings.

• Hilary Hattenbach and her husband, Jared, became Airbnb superhosts after guests gave good reviews.
• They let out the spare apartment in their California duplex after long-term tenants moved out.

Editor's note: Insider has verified the income generated from the Airbnb with documentation

I own a 1920s-era duplex with my husband, Jared, in Silver Lake, California, a hipster enclave east of Hollywood. We live in one unit and rent out the next-door apartment.

In 2014, I quit my marketing job to pursue a writing career, much to my mother's horror.

I'd recently partnered with a chef and sold a cookbook to a publisher. That was the good news. Our modest payment, however, went directly to the food photographer and the stylist. You have to spend money to make money, right?

I figured if the book didn't reach best-seller status (spoiler alert: not even close), I'd do some consulting work and rental income would help cover the mortgage.

We pivoted from hosting long-time renters to vacationers

Alas, right after I quit my job, our renters gave their notice. Rather than race to find new tenants to share our thin walls, we decided to give Airbnb a try.

That way we'd be able to access the apartment for work meetings and let visiting family members use it in between paying guests.

We were novices when it came to side hustles, yet hosting travelers appealed to us. We're extroverts and enjoy meeting new people. And since we'd stayed at Airbnbs before, we'd already figured out some dos and don'ts.

First, we needed to spruce up and furnish the place. The small bathroom had years' worth of wear and tear, so we installed a new sink and vanity and new shower doors and also re-tiled the floor.

As an homage to the legendary architects who'd designed homes in Silver Lake, I chose mid-century-ish décor purchased on discount sites like Wayfair and AllModern. I hung artwork by Los Angeles artists. The process brought me joy and reminded me of time spent with my interior-decorator grandmother, who'd run hotels in Haiti.

To locate the perfect bed — a firm mattress with a soft pillow top — I climbed into beds at several stores and even risked my life to scale a 15-foot mattress tower at Costco to test the quality. Fortunately, my death-defying Goldilocks stunt was worth it. That bed was just right.

I scoured the internet for affordable towels, linens, and kitchen supplies. House plants and a shag rug completed the homey touches. A Nespresso machine added a wow factor.

After getting the place Airbnb-ready, we broke even in about a month

I wrote an enticing Airbnb listing, highlighting the upgrades and our walkable proximity to restaurants and shops. I raved about our "hill-top oasis" and emphasized that we lived on a quiet street with older neighbors to weed out rowdy types.

Airbnb sent a photographer to take pictures for the site, which showcased the apartment's best light and angles — a free service it offers in select cities.

We checked out similar Airbnb profiles in the area and set our nightly rate at $100, which was about $50 less than the competition, plus a cleaning fee of $50.

We required a two-night minimum stay. Almost immediately, we secured a two-week booking for $1,600 and celebrated with pizza. In that first month — March 2014 — our first booking was followed by two more — a five-night stay ($689) and a three-week stay ($2,386), earning nearly $5,000, breaking even on our initial investment.

Airbnb charges guests a 14% service fee and hosts a 4% fee. Keeping our nightly rate low also helped guests avoid sticker shock after the fees.

At first, Jared fancied himself the concierge. He'd ask guests what they'd like for breakfast in advance and stocked the fridge accordingly.

Thoughtful, yes, but not cost-effective. He later downgraded the offerings to milk or creamer of choice, a candy bar, and bottled water.

Our guests ranged from creative Hollywood types to grandparents visiting family.

Though most visitors were lovely, we learned lessons and made adjustments

When a guest broke a glass bed-side lamp, I swapped in fabric lamps. The white rug showed every speck of dirt and proved too difficult to clean.

I opted for a washable version. The blue towels faded after several washings, so I switched to dark-gray ones.

Managing bookings took practice. Check-in and check-out times had to be set in stone to give us time to tidy up, do laundry, and restock.

Originally, we'd low-balled the cleaning fee because we'd resolved to do the cleaning to save money. I won't lie: Pulling a stranger's hair from the drain gave me recurring nightmares.

Once we had steady bookings, we raised the cleaning fee to $150 to cover a professional cleaner's rate and freed ourselves from that drudgery.

By year two, we changed our minimum stay to three nights to attract more weekly bookings. Short stays required as much work as longer ones and brought in less money. That shift upped our earnings and reduced turnover of guests.

After that, we became superhosts, an honor bestowed by Airbnb when you rack up good reviews.

When the pandemic hit in early 2020, we took in former Airbnb guests for what was initially a six-month lease that was ultimately extended. They're still with us while they look for a permanent home. But when they go, we'll definitely put it back on Airbnb.

Overall, Airbnbing has been a profitable, heartwarming experience

From 2014 to 2019, we pulled in an average of $51,000 a year — $16,000 more than what our full-time tenants used to pay. It allowed both of us to pursue writing careers.

Not only that, but we also formed lifelong friendships. Former guests have invited us to stay with them all over Europe.

And best of all, it helped convince my mom I didn't ruin my life by quitting my job.