Be well paid for my writing talents.

I’ve been reinventing my websites, something I do with regularity when I’m disappointed in some aspect of my life. Today I tried to write my first post for my new (and only) blog. It was fair, not really what I wanted, it didn’t flow out of my like some others have. My topic was about our long, hard winter this year.

So I go and visit another blog someone recommended and it happened to be on the same topic, so I read on. The writing, the picture, everything about it was perfection. Exquisite. Luminous. And mine in comparison was a big pile of dog poop. Not even steaming dog poop.

From the writing, you can almost picture the life of the author, and how beautiful that person is, to think such things and be able to express them. I, on the other hand, am not beautiful. Not outside, not inside. There’s lots of darkness and strife and scars and walls and ugliness mixed in like some aggregate compound. The problem is, if you pry out the ugly stones, it becomes even uglier. And weak. And utterly useless.

Some things I’ve written that I like, I can’t remember writing. Okay, everything I like I can’t remember writing. When I consciously attempt to write, it’s complete crap. Which leads me to believe one thing:

I’m not a writer. I’m only a channel that’s open sometimes.

And if I’m not a writer, who am I?

...that I didn’t feel so alone in this. Some support from someone besides my cat would be nice.

My family has never supported it. They support my bagging groceries for life. Which is somehow to them more respectable than being a writer. So I can afford to buy things I don’t need at Wal Mart? Bleh.

Just a tiny little bit of external validation please. Some inspiration. Some sincere support. Something I can remember while I’m submitting articles and essays.

_sigh

... in what is my pseudo backyard (being I live in a condo, and don’t really have my own personal backyard.) First let me say that I think my condo management company is a bunch of neanderthal nature haters, who would rather take down a lovely, healthy tree, than repair a rusted gutter. (They blame the tree’s leaves for the gutter leak…huh? Maybe it wouldn’t LEAK if there wasn’t a HOLE in the gutter!)

Anyway, they’ve upset me before with their tree slaughter, but I think that if I chained myself to these trees that they’d just cut through me as well. While out walking past one of the stumps today, I saw something that really gave me hope. Two new saplings, sprouting on either side of the stump they only cut down a few weeks ago. They are both about 3 ft tall already and sturdy. I like to think that they’re giving the finger to the tree-haters out there, proving that if you cut them down to nothing, they still come back.

So tonight I’ve been reading up on freelancing again. Much of the time, these books confuse me (are you supposed to send out queries first? or write the article? or send an introductory letter? and what are reprint rights and who gets what and when?) I think I finally have a handle on the situation. I even have a plan of attack. Now that I’m feeling much better, I’ll be attacking first thing in the morning.

I can do this. I WILL do this.

So, it’s September 15th, and by today I was supposed to be “paid well for writing.”

And I have failed. No writing jobs, not even crappy ones, in two months.

So, it’s time to regroup. I’ve had a week of physical misery of all sorts, and I really don’t feel that spending time depressed about this will help my recovery, so I’m just moving on.

One funny thing though: three days ago, the 43T Gods took my goal out of the running, and put in the “Live juicy” one. Maybe it’s a nudge toward something more appropriate for me at this time?

I’ve been thinking, and I’m going to try copywriting again. I know I said I hated it because it was all lies just to get paid, but…what if I niche myself into an area that I’d feel good about doing? Like environmental businesses, animal welfare leagues, women’s organizations? No, they might not be Microsoft or Pepsi, but I’d be able to sleep at night.

I have a few other ideas too, but in the meantime I’ll focus on this, on my artisan work, and submitting articles I actually want to write. I’m willing to eat ramen for awhile to create something worthwhile.

...when I was supposed to get a lot done and didn’t because I had some 24 hour vomit-a-thon, I find myself questioning my a)ability to write and b)my desire to write for a living. I actually thought I had a blogging job (the pay was awful but it would be a start) and I’ve never been contacted by the ezine editor again. I emailed to ask where to submit my blogs, and there’s been no response for weeks. I submitted another proposal and heard nothing from that either.

I have one week to find a paying writing job, but do I even want it anymore? It seems like a lot of crap to go through to get paid a penny per word. Proposals don’t even count as part of a job, and it’s said that you spend more time on them than you do on actual writing.

I’ve read book after book about freelancing and it’s ugly cousin, copywriting. The problem with copywriting that I see in the books is that they don’t care about their words, really. They don’t put heart and sweat and blood into them. I don’t want to toss off half-assed copy about stuff I don’t care about and “make millions.”

The real question is, if I decide not to freelance, what am I? This has been my fear forever. It’s taken me decades to decide on a career, because what if I go all out for it, and it sucks?

They tell you to write your passion. Well, no one wants to pay for my passions, it seems. I think maybe the only way I can get money for writing is to sell all my books on writing.

If I go back to retail I’ll be dead within a year, I’m certain.

So we’ll see within a week. I’ve given myself two months to get some sort of writing job, ANY writing job. And if I don’t, I’ve failed…again. Just like my family wants me to.

So I get all organized, I find lots of freelancing opportunities, and I go to try to write them and I can’t do it. A crappy little 500 word article on generalities like “belief” and “attitude.” I can’t get a damn word down on the paper…er…screen. What is wrong with me that I can’t do this???

What is it that turns me off so completely? I do writing practices with prompts all the time. Maybe it’s the whole “once you write this, it’s mine mine mine and never yours, and here’s ten bucks for your 5000 word article.”

I have things I’d like to research and write about, but I’m not finding these topics on the freelancing help wanted ads. No, instead I find things like “write forty articles on reusable shopping bags.” FORTY. Are these people high? Who cares about this topic, and how are people willing to pay for that crap and not things that….well, things that interest ME?

I hate words sometimes. I think there are too many out there. Too much information, too many opinions, too many lies and false beliefs. Even in the night, you can almost see them in my rural open skies…clouds of mutterings and mumblings and off the cuff comments. Words don’t mean much anymore.

I was kind of hoping to change that.

After posting the last entry, I emailed the college and said I’d take the job.

Two hours later, I got an email back, saying “sorry, we gave it to another applicant this morning. Feel free to look at our site for another job in the future.”

This stupid cashier job has been on that site for two damn months. And suddenly, they have other applicants??

I didn’t think I could be more depressed than I was before. I’ll get angry soon, and become a writing machine to “Show Them All.” But in the meantime, I’m a big fat humiliated failure. Again.

So, I have as my goal to “get paid to write” by September 15th, or get a “real” job. And now, a little over a month before the goal date, I have a few choices to make.

One of my dream jobs is to work in higher education, either as an instructor or some kind of cultural director…something that involves the Humanities, such as world religions, culture, art, literature, etc. Something that I would like to do and not just tolerate.

I applied to the community college that I attended back in 2004, writing a general letter of interest, specifying the type of job I’d like. I realize that I can’t teach without a Masters Degree. But a Bachelors has to be good for something, right?

I got an answer back a few days ago. I’ve been offered the job of “cashier” in the bursar’s office. And that’s it. A job that’s described on their site as requiring a “high school diploma or equivalent.”

As a writer, I know I will face rejection. But I thought that maybe after 6 years of college (4 years part time) I’d get even a half step higher employment than when I started. Something. Research assistant. Professor’s assistant. I’m just happy that no cafeteria jobs are available right now, or else I might really be depressed and self-hating.

But, after my initial heartbreak, I started to think about this job. It’s close to home (the next closest college is over an hour away.) I’ll be on campus, and that’s always been a good atmosphere for me. I’ll have access to the library. I could get to network with real professors about routes to go to further my education. It’s a part time job, 4 days a week, and I could still write on my days off. I could visit the art gallery and probably see the cultural programs for free.

I’m afraid that taking this job, my mind/soul will see it as “giving up” the writing freelance thing. What if I don’t have the mind-freedom time I need to write effectively? But again, if don’t have money to live for another few months, that would suck too. Am I so entrenched in the “suffering anti-social artist” mindset that I can’t manage to be both a “worker” and a writer?

That’s another thing. I’m not what you call a bubbly, chattery type. I don’t talk a lot. I’m not very social, especially just to be “nice.” I hate that.

Of course, yesterday I just sat here, and didn’t even write, too depressed at my lack of writing success over the past few months. I thought by now, I’d feel more like a writer, and less like a house cleaner, cook, and animal caregiver.

This morning I got up, and found the dog had pooped all over the floor, one or more of the cats threw up, the bird cage needed cleaning, and by the time all of that was done, husband came home from his night job and wanted breakfast. I still have laundry, dishes, and tons to clean.

If I take this job, when can I ever write again?

Writing has always come fairly easy to me. I wrote A+ book reports and research papers the night before they were due. Once I start to write, it’s as if I’m not the one writing anymore-sort of like that supernatural automatic writing that is featured in programs like Twilight Zone or Outer Limits, or in movies like The Others and Rose Red. The truth is, more than half of what I go back and read at a later date, I don’t even recognize as my writing. Freaky, eh?

So now I stand on the blustery precipice of needing to bring in some income, and wondering which side of the mountain I should tumble down. There are good reasons for me to want to have an at-home job, and it’s not just the cost of gas.

I’ve read over and over in my “writing for bucks” type of books, that copywriting/business writing ISN’T selling out. But how isn’t it, if I have to make up crap for products and services I have never experienced and/or don’t believe in? Isn’t that the definition of selling out?

Damn my values. I want my career to be meaningful to me, and not just whore myself out for a paycheck. That’s all I’ve ever done before-taking terrible jobs and letting my soul die for want of paying rent. People see this as “normal”, which astounds me. I forget which movie it was, but insanity was defined as spending 50 hours a week in a cubicle, dying a slow death.

I don’t know what to do.