Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Freelance, Schmeelance. As I've mentioned before in my blog, I'm a freelance writer. I've been at it for five months, since I quit my position at a non-profit in late October. Apparently, an FW is a funny thing to be, because when I tell people about my vocation, they tend to chuckle a bit. I know, I know....'Freelance Writer' is synonymous with 'Vaguely Unemployed' in many cases. Everyone with an English degree and a pen/keyboard seems to think they can make it in the rough and tumble world of writing, and more often than not, they discover that there are more freelancers than there are freelance jobs to be had. Most freelancers end up on one of the following paths: Writes here and there while writing a novel, sells novel, gets 'discovered', hosts inspirational workshops for other freelancers. Never writes another novel, continues to make sole living off of workshops. Writes for others, writes for self. Sells plethora of novels, settles in a lovely cottage in Provence. Writes good, solid material for a number of sources, thus creating a steady enough demand for their work that they manage to make a living from scattered jobs. Writes lots of articles and things, and then gets regular gig as a columnist or editor at a paper that likes to give out chances to people who deserve them. Writes lots of things, get angry no one buys any of them, starts association to help themselves and others get paying jobs, ends up mired in writerly politics. Hosts candlelight vigils in front of Random House HQ. Freelances until nest egg runs out, gets other job, thinks back wistfully. Works four part-time jobs, writes late at night, never gets discovered. Works four part-time jobs, writes late at night, gets discovered. Marries into patronage, continues to write "for me", doesn't sell a thing, travels and wears a lot of bright, patterned clothing. Writes and writes and writes, applies for writer jobs, sells a bit of work, has a few contracts come and go, blogs hard, hopes for the best, runs out of money, nearly gives up, writes entry about it, curses lack of financial planning before previously leaving non-profit job, starts applying for any job that will take her, looks ruefully at donation button on blog, goes and drinks tea. Can you guess which path is my own? Yes, it's not been an easy haul, but I've done my darndest to stay positive, and not burden my loved ones with worries or concerns about the feasibility of my chosen vocation. Now, my 'darndest' won't always prevent minor panic from slipping out now and again, but I'd like to think (allow me my delusions!), that even when I stress out, I've got a sense of humour about the whole thing. I don't imagine I have some amazing gift that MUST NOT LIE DORMANT. But I think I write pretty well now and again, and I'd like to think I'll make a go of this whole process, given some diligence, wisdom, work, good advice, and sacrifice. Granted, I'm now looking for any job that will hire me, so I'm not sure that my patience with it all is holding out. At the end of the day, one must pay bills. If nothing else in life is certain, that, my friends, remains. So to all of you who email and ask what I do, that's my current drift. And to all of you who ask what I write? Well...I'll write anything for anyone who pays me. And, of course, for lots of people who don't pay me. Just for fun. I edit a lot of resumes, write a lot of cover letters, and edit and tweak university papers for people on a pro bono basis because I think that's just good writing karma. This makes my more enterprising friends want to beat me up, but alas...I'll just charge them when I work on theirs, then! On my old blog, I put out a shingle of sorts regarding things I was offering to write for anyone who needed writing done. It was partly tongue-in-cheek, but as any freelancer knows, sometimes it's the silliest assignments that teach us the most about our 'craft' (yes, I know I just said 'craft', stop giggling). The list was as follows: ***Do you have papers that need editing? Cover letters that need brushing up? An email to your parents to tell them (in a sensitive, validating way) that you spent your Stanford scholarship on Mountain Dew, KFC, and comic books? A letter to your boyfriend, who is teaching English in Japan, to tell him (in a witty, ironic way) that you are now dating a Japanese guy? A resume to get you the job of your dreams (or at least, not your nightmares)? A letter to the editor that you think needs a bit of refining (maybe not so many f-words...)? A memo to tell your whole department (in an affirming, encouraging fashion) that they are a bunch of lazy sods? A series of children's' stories to lull your babies off to sleep (and not just Harry Potter ripoffs)? A critique to make you sound like you actually read the selection of the month at your book club (have you even bought the paperback yet)? A monologue to get you that soap opera job (complete with tears and a wistful final line)? A better Star Wars prequel (to help you get rid of the dirty feeling the actual ones left you with)? A recommendation letter for someone you'd rather kick, but desperately want to get another job (far from you)? A summary of your life on good stationary to stop your grandma from (waking up in a cold sweat) worrying about you? Wedding vows that are cooler than anyone else's (or at least don't make you gag)? An anecdote to tell at your high school reunion about you and the cheerleading squad captain (whom you just heard is unable to attend...hmmm)? I can provide all this and more. If you can't put it into words, let me!*** That was my shingle, folks, and it remains my shingle. I am a freelance writer, and while 'free' is a big part of that word, so is 'lance'. I have no idea what I mean by that. But just so you know, I am available to write. Anything. Or edit. Anything. I even have a Paypal link up there to the left, for any blog-reading arts patrons who find an extra quarter in their piggy banks. I'm here. Use me. Erm, use me to write. 1:32:39 PM    build me up, buttercup... [] Rings, Potato Chips, and Hips. These are my Nonna's wedding rings. My mother received them after Nonna died, and passed them onto me shortly thereafter. She figured she'd be giving them to me soon enough anyhow (even though they look better on her graceful hand) and further, she honoured my desire to wear them daily as a remembrance of my grandmother. If and when I get married one day, depending on what my future husband thinks, I may just get Nonna's rings sized to fit my 'wedding finger', and wear them as they were intended to be worn. A bigger diamond might look nice in the engagement ring, but knowing my love of starving-artist boys, an 'upgrade' ain't likely in the cards. I have a few other old things that belonged to relatives that have passed on as well, including a few strands of pearls, a small writing desk, a couple brooches (one of which my mother saw on the cover of the National Post), and an autograph book from my grand-cousin Norma. She must have been just a teenager when she began collecting signatures and poems in the little timeworn burgundy volume. There are limericks, couplets, love tokens and scrawled names throughout the heathered-ivory pages, scrawled faintly in old-fashioned, ink-blobbed cursive. My favourite entry comes right at the beginning: If scribbling in albums Remembrance ensures... With the greatest of pleasure I'll scribble in yours. Lovingly, K.B. I've never been one to treat heirlooms as talismans, but all these things are quite special to me. They are memories of wonderful old people, who brought wisdom, humour, strength and history in my life. Because of these folks, I don't fear aging the way many of my contemporaries do; I look forward to the patience and peace that will hopefully find increase as my years advance. I look forward as well to passing on treasures of my own to to the next generation. That being said, if you look again at the pictures above, you should notice another little heirloom I possess that I don't find too special at all. My fingernails turn up at the ends, giving them the appearance of tiny potato chips stuck to the ends of my digits. Apparently, this weird quirk of genetics comes to me via my fiery Irish grandfather. We presume this to be true partly because he's the only other person in our family with the odd ski-jump nails, and partly because it's fun to credit him with the spread of bizarre features. I used to wrap Scotch tape around my fingertips at night to try and train them into becoming normal fingernails, but it never worked. Perhaps my parents should have been 'taping' me as soon as they realized I was thus malformed, but I suppose they'd have looked neurotic and pageant-parentish for caring either way. There really isn't anything my mother is LESS of than a pageant mom...she'd rather I be well-read than well-nailed. Anyhow, I can't really get manicures as a result (although, darn it, I'm a girly girl, I'll keep trying!), and I constantly get my nails bent back whenever something catches their rather abrupt and out-there edges. I've cursed these babies a few more times than I care to admit, and my poor grandpa by extension. It's not his fault, per se, but it was his blood. None of the women on my father's side can tell their right hand from their left. I won that jackpot, too, in addition to my Walker hips (child-bearing), and Fowler legs (good for dancing). I'm short like both my grandmas, and I have fiery-red rosy cheeks like both my grandfathers do at times. My green eyes are from my mom, and my dark, dark hair is from my dad. I also inherited the Walker respiratory woes, the Fowler tooth woes, and giant earlobes that no one can explain. Both sides are musical, so it's a crapshoot as to where that desire and ability came from, but the art and design capabilities come down firmly from my mother's side (or maybe just from her...she certainly has enough to spare). My dad and I are both high-maintenance 'product' people, but I don't think that's a genetic issue...just good breeding *wink wink*. All things considered, I am a clear product of the family lines that mingled when my parents fell in love, married, and started a brood. Everyone can point to something in my manner or appearance that existed in some other relative years before I came into the world. While some of those things (like my weird fingernails) seem like more of a pain in the butt than they do genealogical watermarks, I'm glad my roots are obvious in my features. After all...people spend billions of dollars on plastic surgery each year to look more like the people they admire. Me? I just grew into it. 12:18:20 AM    build me up, buttercup... []

© Copyright 2005 Meg Fowler. Last update: 4/1/2005; 12:36:40 AM.