Is it possible? I used to be able to take the ebbs and flows of freelance life with ease, trotting off to the coffee shop for a session of reading and window-gazing on days like today.
The work keeps coming, this I know. But I haven't pitched a solid story in months, it seems, and I'm out of practice so I should be boning up on the cold emails and the perfectly crafted pitch. And the coffee shop doesn't feel appealing.
Maybe it's my new status as wife and dog-owner? I do feel a twinge of guilt when I spend money on myself, knowing my guy carefully calculates how many colour copies he can make with the bit of change in his pocket. And the guilt upon leaving Foster for anything that doesn't directly relate to filling his bowl (or meeting his vet appointments) ... well, that's a given.
Maybe it's just this new office. What's different? For one, I can't stare out the window at passersby. I thought that was a good thing, an attention-saver.
And another thing: we don't have a kettle, which means tea time is a confusing task of boiling water, standing by the stove (dont' want another *accident*), and then re-heating said water after the first cup is done. Might as well have taken the dog for another walk, with all the walking and impatient looks.
Lastly, the house is a mess. The last house was also often a mess, but this room is smaller. Fewer places to look.
That's it. This afternoon, I'll clean. It's the only way to justifiably use my time and energy in an act that will benefit all -- and hopefully feed my writing life.
Showing posts with label freelance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label freelance. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Editors: Aim to please or stand your ground?
A comment made on my Facebook page today, made by a former journalism teacher, made me remember one of my favourite lessons of freelancing.
I was a fourth-year journalism student with a hefty assignment on green roofs. He was a senior editor who made quasi-promises about printing (and paying for!) said article.
But after weeks of sending him well-crafted, overly-polite emails -- one of which included the full 2,500-word article -- I started to get scared. In his first email he expressed sharp interest ... so why didn't he return any more emails?
Finally, I changed my tune. I wrote and said I was scared I'd made a mistake sending the article. Though I prefaced the note by claiming ignorance on the finer points of freelance ("they don't teach us this is J-school"), I ended with the aggressive "I hope I don't see this article, with the same sources but under a different byline, in a future edition of your newspaper."
Well, that got a response!
"I'll give you some advice about freelancing," the editor wrote, "don't go around accusing senior editors of stealing your story."
Whoa. Was i shut down or what?! I took his advice, and got more comfortable in my powerless freelancer position.
The thing is, just year later, I was on staff at that publication, and of course it wasn't long before I ran into that editor. Yes, he remembered me -- he even remember my article.
And a couple months later he recommended me for an article that dealt with some of the issues my original assignment had schooled me in. Because I was a copy editor at the time, I was able to earn some extra cash writing it, put my knowledge gained from the previous article to use, and give my freelance hopes a boost.
So did I make a mistake that day when I made such an accusation? I'm still not sure. I think I'd rather be remembered as someone who stepped out of line than forgotten among the heap of freelance pitches. And it remains a favourite story ... 'cause it helped lead me to give up the copy desk and write many more stories.
I was a fourth-year journalism student with a hefty assignment on green roofs. He was a senior editor who made quasi-promises about printing (and paying for!) said article.
But after weeks of sending him well-crafted, overly-polite emails -- one of which included the full 2,500-word article -- I started to get scared. In his first email he expressed sharp interest ... so why didn't he return any more emails?
Finally, I changed my tune. I wrote and said I was scared I'd made a mistake sending the article. Though I prefaced the note by claiming ignorance on the finer points of freelance ("they don't teach us this is J-school"), I ended with the aggressive "I hope I don't see this article, with the same sources but under a different byline, in a future edition of your newspaper."
Well, that got a response!
"I'll give you some advice about freelancing," the editor wrote, "don't go around accusing senior editors of stealing your story."
Whoa. Was i shut down or what?! I took his advice, and got more comfortable in my powerless freelancer position.
The thing is, just year later, I was on staff at that publication, and of course it wasn't long before I ran into that editor. Yes, he remembered me -- he even remember my article.
And a couple months later he recommended me for an article that dealt with some of the issues my original assignment had schooled me in. Because I was a copy editor at the time, I was able to earn some extra cash writing it, put my knowledge gained from the previous article to use, and give my freelance hopes a boost.
So did I make a mistake that day when I made such an accusation? I'm still not sure. I think I'd rather be remembered as someone who stepped out of line than forgotten among the heap of freelance pitches. And it remains a favourite story ... 'cause it helped lead me to give up the copy desk and write many more stories.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Interviews ... I mean ... meetings
So I had an interview yesterday. Or at least I think it was an interview -- the interviewers had copies of my resume, I brought work samples, and we talked about future work possibilities.
But it wasn't an interview in the traditional sense: there was no coveted job on the line, and my expectations were (and remain) fairly low.
Now, I have gone for many an interview. Some have been fantastic, leading to successful stints and professional relationships that lasted long after I left the employer. Others ... notsomuch. I remember one particularly awful experience in the basement of a ski lodge that left me crying, broken down by the sheer struggle of working in a field that didn't fit. Needles to say I didn't get the job.
As a freelancer I have a much different frame of reference when it comes to dealing with higher-ups. When I meet or speak by phone with editors it's mostly about content, results, projects. We try to find what will fit -- we don't try to find that elusive bi-weekly paycheque. And I've been told (I believe it was by Craig Silverman at a PWAC event last year) that face-time really counts when it comes to getting gigs as a freelance journalist.
I could definitely have been more prepared for this 'meeting,' but I took the advice of a contact who has worked for years with this organization. She said be yourself -- so I was. Doesn't mean that self -- skill set, and all -- can't change, but they should know the truth about where I am now. I don't need to fake enthusiasm or sincerity, at least with this employer. I feel it's my dream employer and I feel like I've entered some other, better world when I consume their content.
So I will do more of this, and get better at it. I will take what I've got and see what they have, and see if we can't make something fit.
But it wasn't an interview in the traditional sense: there was no coveted job on the line, and my expectations were (and remain) fairly low.
Now, I have gone for many an interview. Some have been fantastic, leading to successful stints and professional relationships that lasted long after I left the employer. Others ... notsomuch. I remember one particularly awful experience in the basement of a ski lodge that left me crying, broken down by the sheer struggle of working in a field that didn't fit. Needles to say I didn't get the job.
As a freelancer I have a much different frame of reference when it comes to dealing with higher-ups. When I meet or speak by phone with editors it's mostly about content, results, projects. We try to find what will fit -- we don't try to find that elusive bi-weekly paycheque. And I've been told (I believe it was by Craig Silverman at a PWAC event last year) that face-time really counts when it comes to getting gigs as a freelance journalist.
I could definitely have been more prepared for this 'meeting,' but I took the advice of a contact who has worked for years with this organization. She said be yourself -- so I was. Doesn't mean that self -- skill set, and all -- can't change, but they should know the truth about where I am now. I don't need to fake enthusiasm or sincerity, at least with this employer. I feel it's my dream employer and I feel like I've entered some other, better world when I consume their content.
So I will do more of this, and get better at it. I will take what I've got and see what they have, and see if we can't make something fit.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Work/ life balance
Following my last post on the career/ marriage balance, I've been re-assessing priorities and taking stock of what really matters. Lots of 'in the moment' thinking and dishwashing daydreams.
While part of it accompanies the whole seven-months-before-I-say-I-do phase, these contemplative thoughts are also a result of a recent mini-tragedy in my home: my roommate broke her arm.
It's a pretty bad break and they don't know if she'll need surgery. She's doing acupuncture and Chinese medicine, not to mention legal action. This all adds up to a pile of appointments, plus the usual cooking, cleaning, opening and closing that people do with their right arm.
Being the stay-at-home freelancer that I am, I not only have the flexibility to help out, but I also have the financial "situation" that made me quite open to her mom's offer of compensation for running my roommate -- and good friend -- around town. (Basically, she paid off the debt I owed to said roommate.)
While I might not be the most cheerful of fetchers, I'm actually enjoying the process. It makes me organize my time (up earlier, at my desk later), but perhaps more importantly, it has made me think about my priorities.
When we're sick or hurt we can't help but put our life first. We can't type with a broken hand, we can't speak coherently on heavy pain meds. But if we're so removed from putting some importance on 'life' stuff like health and food and fitness and laughing, when we're blindsided with sickness or injury it's easy to panic, unable to imagine life beyond work.
But it's out there!
While part of it accompanies the whole seven-months-before-I-say-I-do phase, these contemplative thoughts are also a result of a recent mini-tragedy in my home: my roommate broke her arm.
It's a pretty bad break and they don't know if she'll need surgery. She's doing acupuncture and Chinese medicine, not to mention legal action. This all adds up to a pile of appointments, plus the usual cooking, cleaning, opening and closing that people do with their right arm.
Being the stay-at-home freelancer that I am, I not only have the flexibility to help out, but I also have the financial "situation" that made me quite open to her mom's offer of compensation for running my roommate -- and good friend -- around town. (Basically, she paid off the debt I owed to said roommate.)
While I might not be the most cheerful of fetchers, I'm actually enjoying the process. It makes me organize my time (up earlier, at my desk later), but perhaps more importantly, it has made me think about my priorities.
When we're sick or hurt we can't help but put our life first. We can't type with a broken hand, we can't speak coherently on heavy pain meds. But if we're so removed from putting some importance on 'life' stuff like health and food and fitness and laughing, when we're blindsided with sickness or injury it's easy to panic, unable to imagine life beyond work.
But it's out there!
Monday, January 26, 2009
Monday morning (attitude)
Yes, it's Monday morning as I write this, a very cold Monday morning that saw the temperature actually drop after the sun came up. It also saw my alarm clock wake me (from a dream about getting my hair cut, the stylist finding popcorn kernels under my gums) at 7:30 a.m.!
Now, I'm usually at my desk by 9 a.m. ... but that's allowing for a dreamy 20 minutes or so of sheet-shuffling and dream-remembering. Today I had an appointment to keep: a seniors fitness class at the Metro Y.
As with all my fitness initiatives, there was a brief pause in which I questioned -- nay, doubted -- my decision. Do aerobics? For the sake of appeasing a source? Just because he offered a guest pass to his class? When it's -34C?
But alas, my bladder had already been stirred and I knew I had to answer the call. Soon I was bundled up: Gortex pants, puffy red coat, long johns, double layer of socks ... you get the picture (though really I should start documenting these get-ups... they're really something!)
That's not to say my resolve was complete. No, I stuck todays' Ottawa Citizen in my back pack -- just in case my fitness instructor source hadn't made arrangements to get me in the class free, I wanted to have back-up plans for hanging in the downtown Y lobby.
Then, as I walked in the frigid Centretown streets, the moisture from my breath forming a white layer of frost along the edge of my scarf, I realized that I was ready to rock. I had pulled myself out of bed, over the hump of Monday morning, and I was prepared to pay whatever (ok, I was considering a $3.25 limit...) to get into that class ... and receive what I knew would be a healthy dose of inspiration.
Indeed, it was more than I could have asked for. My name was on a sheet at the front desk (spelled correctly!), and the class was welcoming, quick-paced, and funny. It got me 'out of my comfort zone' by verbalizing grunts and 'voilas,' all to the tune of ABBA, Olivia Newton John, and the rest of those aerobics classics.
If you've never seen seniors move it, you're really missing out. There was something goofy, yet focused, about the mood of the class -- and altogether it made me excited for that chapter of my life.
As for this here chapter of my life, I'm meeting my source later today for coffee, where I'm expecting him to tell me the location of the fountain of youth, or at least lead me to some interesting stories.
But if neither works out, as is sometimes the case in this freelance life, I'll know this morning was not wasted. The Y60 class at Metro Y, the -34C, the alarm clock and the bundling, all got me over of the slump that sometimes comes with Monday morning.
Now, I'm usually at my desk by 9 a.m. ... but that's allowing for a dreamy 20 minutes or so of sheet-shuffling and dream-remembering. Today I had an appointment to keep: a seniors fitness class at the Metro Y.
As with all my fitness initiatives, there was a brief pause in which I questioned -- nay, doubted -- my decision. Do aerobics? For the sake of appeasing a source? Just because he offered a guest pass to his class? When it's -34C?
But alas, my bladder had already been stirred and I knew I had to answer the call. Soon I was bundled up: Gortex pants, puffy red coat, long johns, double layer of socks ... you get the picture (though really I should start documenting these get-ups... they're really something!)
That's not to say my resolve was complete. No, I stuck todays' Ottawa Citizen in my back pack -- just in case my fitness instructor source hadn't made arrangements to get me in the class free, I wanted to have back-up plans for hanging in the downtown Y lobby.
Then, as I walked in the frigid Centretown streets, the moisture from my breath forming a white layer of frost along the edge of my scarf, I realized that I was ready to rock. I had pulled myself out of bed, over the hump of Monday morning, and I was prepared to pay whatever (ok, I was considering a $3.25 limit...) to get into that class ... and receive what I knew would be a healthy dose of inspiration.
Indeed, it was more than I could have asked for. My name was on a sheet at the front desk (spelled correctly!), and the class was welcoming, quick-paced, and funny. It got me 'out of my comfort zone' by verbalizing grunts and 'voilas,' all to the tune of ABBA, Olivia Newton John, and the rest of those aerobics classics.
If you've never seen seniors move it, you're really missing out. There was something goofy, yet focused, about the mood of the class -- and altogether it made me excited for that chapter of my life.
As for this here chapter of my life, I'm meeting my source later today for coffee, where I'm expecting him to tell me the location of the fountain of youth, or at least lead me to some interesting stories.
But if neither works out, as is sometimes the case in this freelance life, I'll know this morning was not wasted. The Y60 class at Metro Y, the -34C, the alarm clock and the bundling, all got me over of the slump that sometimes comes with Monday morning.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Ah, the home office
Yes, I'm working from home today. My wonderful boss at the Ottawa Writers Festival gave us the day off (given the fact that we did 12-hour days for ten days in a row, I suppose it should be expected, but I was still surprised!)
And because I am a bit of a work-aholic, love my work, and am trying to inject new life into my freelance career, I'm working on my 'day off.' And it's great!
The sun filters in as I watch the day outside turn from sunny to wet-snowy, to grey with patches of vibrant blue. A tiny boxer puppy seems to smell something interesting on my patch of grass ... his owner tugs him along. The phone rings; I take diligent messages for my roommates.
And the mail comes!
All my life I've loved the mail. I procrastinated on the whole email thing because I knew it would be one more reason to avoid snail mail. In the late 90s I was still writing letters, pasting together photo collages and sneaking in little stickers and ticket stubs to more tangibly share memories with friends. Some snail mail allies would even write back, and I have tons of colourful, sentimental scrawlings in basement boxes.
But email came, and letters went. Or did they?
As a freelancer, I still get cheques in the mail. I know a lot of freelancers complain about the inconsistency of the invoicing system, but I sort of like it. Yes, I've had to hound editors who've had to hound accounts payable who maybe never even got the invoice, and I guess I'm luck because my rent is low and my bills even lower.
But there's something in the NOT knowing. Something in the limbo -- a sense that it could all be taken out from underneath you -- that keeps me working hard and prevents me from taking anything for granted. When I do month-by-month projections (ok, these are more like passing thoughts will running than Excel spreadsheets), I just kind of hope and visualize library trips, hours at the local coffee shop, frugal meals and quiet afternoons.
Yes, I'm on a contract now that gives me a regular paycheque. And yet I welcome the return to full-time freelance.
Maybe my hopeful tone is just because I got mail today, but it's worth noting that I did not receive a cheque. No, I got a stack of Ottawa Citizen Style Magazine, sent to me by my editor, who seems to think there's more work to be had and that I might just succeed in this game.
I also received the journal that my fiance and I correspond in. He's in Connecticut, and he gave me this hard cover book in Hawaii when we first parted in December 2007. Back and forth it goes, filled with hope and love and scrawling... looks like I have another ally in the snail mail underworld.
And because I am a bit of a work-aholic, love my work, and am trying to inject new life into my freelance career, I'm working on my 'day off.' And it's great!
The sun filters in as I watch the day outside turn from sunny to wet-snowy, to grey with patches of vibrant blue. A tiny boxer puppy seems to smell something interesting on my patch of grass ... his owner tugs him along. The phone rings; I take diligent messages for my roommates.
And the mail comes!
All my life I've loved the mail. I procrastinated on the whole email thing because I knew it would be one more reason to avoid snail mail. In the late 90s I was still writing letters, pasting together photo collages and sneaking in little stickers and ticket stubs to more tangibly share memories with friends. Some snail mail allies would even write back, and I have tons of colourful, sentimental scrawlings in basement boxes.
But email came, and letters went. Or did they?
As a freelancer, I still get cheques in the mail. I know a lot of freelancers complain about the inconsistency of the invoicing system, but I sort of like it. Yes, I've had to hound editors who've had to hound accounts payable who maybe never even got the invoice, and I guess I'm luck because my rent is low and my bills even lower.
But there's something in the NOT knowing. Something in the limbo -- a sense that it could all be taken out from underneath you -- that keeps me working hard and prevents me from taking anything for granted. When I do month-by-month projections (ok, these are more like passing thoughts will running than Excel spreadsheets), I just kind of hope and visualize library trips, hours at the local coffee shop, frugal meals and quiet afternoons.
Yes, I'm on a contract now that gives me a regular paycheque. And yet I welcome the return to full-time freelance.
Maybe my hopeful tone is just because I got mail today, but it's worth noting that I did not receive a cheque. No, I got a stack of Ottawa Citizen Style Magazine, sent to me by my editor, who seems to think there's more work to be had and that I might just succeed in this game.
I also received the journal that my fiance and I correspond in. He's in Connecticut, and he gave me this hard cover book in Hawaii when we first parted in December 2007. Back and forth it goes, filled with hope and love and scrawling... looks like I have another ally in the snail mail underworld.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Worn
worn |wôrn|
damaged and shabby as a result of much use : a worn, frayed denim jacket
Thanks to my friendly neighbour who came by Saturday to remind about Ladyfest on Saturday, I made it out to 'Not your grandma's craft sale' at the Jack Purcell centre in Ottawa. A first time for me, and despite the fact that I was feeling a little grubby, cheap, and irritable, I had a great time! I can only imagine my impression should I have woken on the right side of the bed.
My 'nose for news' has recently taken on new meanings, as I inhale with glee favourite glossies and train passengers -- somehow guessing my interest -- offer me magazines they've found. Likewise at LadyFest, I immediately found myself at the magazine stand. Or, at least, Serah-marie with her publication, Worn Fashion Journal.
Worn really struck me. It is indie yet polished, smooth and well-designed, with lots of content and visuals. The publication aims to bring 'a political, environmental, historical and cultural context to fashion,' and in my browsing I found articles on galleries, textiles, and the influence of music on fashion. Basically, it seemed, if it's high-end now, it could have started in the pages of Worn. Not to say it's a place for newbies aiming to hit the big-time (their writer's guidelines demand opinions and list the following words as 'Banned, unless there is a very good reason: Discourse
Uber
For example
this article
fav
fashionista
No, Worn seemed to me like the beginnings of culture. Though it looked much better, it reminded me of mold. Looks like a dot on the cultural radar, but can be brewed into a fine cheese we're all vying for -- once the marketers have stepped in to direct.
Of course I asked about contributing, and Serah-marie seemed interested, though we soon nodded appreciatively at each other about the business end of it all. No, she can't pay contributors. Hopefully soon, they all say. In any case, I enjoyed flipping and chatting, and told her that I liked the look of it, and would keep my eyes peeled for Worn around town.
But I'd barely passed a rack of shapeless T-shirt dresses (who looks good in those?) when my mind snapped to something I'd read in Worn. It was about Astria Suparak, a curator in Syracuse, NY. As part of her profile, she'd noted clothing exchanges as a source of inspiration. It was, in fact, the #1 item on her list.
I've been trying to pitch this story for a couple years now. Clothing exchanges as fashion inspiration, yes, but these events also serve as excellent 'social lubricants' (more on that later), and fit into the green movement better than recycled fleece. And yet, as of yet, no bites. The green movement is gaining ground, reaching a new 'tipping point,' they say, though there's hope yet for that angle. But still...
In my research for pitches to these stories, I often do some mad Googling, offering the search engine any combination of the words/ ideas Clothing + Exchange. The movement is growing, and I find myself excited about more hits, which is why I returned to Serah-marie's booth and took down Astria Suparak's name. More fuel for future pitches! This way I can 'prove' clothing exchanges not only happen, but have a special place in the world of fashion.
Alas, my discovery was bittersweet. As I walked away (Serah-Marie kindly let me take down the name without buying a copy) I realized something about freelancing and this whole 'trend identification' thing. Freelancing for magazines requires long lead times; you have to think months ahead and hope/ plan for an issue or idea to remain relevant. But it's not so much the logistics as it is the mindset of editors that was bothering me last Saturday.
Why is it that something must be written elsewhere, have a Google presence, or an NGO-affiliation in order to be valid?
and how long can something original and sincere, like a clothing exchange, maintain a Google presence without becoming tired, old news? After I write the article of my dreams, will the clothing exchange be 'damaged and shabby as a result of much use'?
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