Whores wanted!

A few weeks ago, I wrote what was arguably my greatest and most accurate Facebook status ever:

This revelation came from weeks of checking Craigslist every day for random writing gigs, in the futile attempt to find a winning combination that would allow me to quit my current job and throw myself into what I really love. Once in a while, I'd find something I could see myself doing, only to scroll down to the Compensation section to see: "no pay." Then I'd weigh out in my head if my time was worth the experience it would give me, much like I imagine a prostitute weighs the pros and cons before getting into a john's car. Oh, wait. Except prostitutes get paid. Whores do it for free.

But it's Craigslist, I reminded myself. Craigslist is shady; I shouldn't even be considering ghostwriting someone's shitty memoir for free, but I am, because there's nothing else. If only I had another place to look for writing jobs, a place that values writing and writers as indispensable members of society. 

So I started checking AWP and Poets & Writers: two sites that are routinely referenced as great resources during my twice-yearly writing residencies. These sites regularly post writing-related jobs from across the country. What did I find? More of the same.

Internship (Unpaid)
Unpaid
Unpaid
Unpaid

With a wider lens, a pattern emerged before me: what writers do isn't worth paying for. We're expected to work 40-60 hours per week, offering up our creative process and product, for nothing. And be grateful for the work. But how are we supposed to clothe and feed ourselves, get around or have a place to sleep? Apparently, these are just annoying and impolite questions that a whore doesn't deserve to ask.

This got me thinking about the music business: more specifically, about the musicians who are pissed about their songs being pirated online. How much of our shit do we writers give away for nothing, in the name of experience or recognition? Who decided that their art was worth millions, or billions of dollars, while I sit in front of my computer trying to piece together 10 different freelance jobs to make ends meet, lowering your standards and rate of pay to steal the job away from another struggling writer? If that doesn't make you feel like a whore, I don't know what would. And, just like in the world of prostitution, there's always a whore who will do it for less, or even for free in exchange for college credit.

In the end, all I can say is this: your work is worth paying for. Respect it and cherish it. Stop giving it away for free, because you're fucking it up for everyone else.

My feral mind

Is it possible to lose words in one language if you're speaking another 40 hours a week? I feel like my English vocabulary is now a casualty of my French-language job and grow frustrated with my reliance on a thesaurus to clear the cobwebs and reminding me of words I've always known. I just hope my sub-par command of the English language didn't carry over into my second packet, which should be in the hands of my mentor now. Gulp. I'm pretty sure I crushed the craft essay, though it was strange to analyze my own mentor's book! Fiction-wise, for this submission, I plowed forward instead of revising--at my mentor's recommendation--and tried to get into the meat of the story. I'm worried, though, that I was either too cold or melodramatic with the emotional portions. Guess we'll see.

Besides that, I now have two ideas for other novels I would like to write...one of which may or may not involve a lesbian werewolf. It's sounding pretty awesome, so I'll write some and see where it goes. I always wanted to wait 10 years, write a vampire/monster book, and hit it big like someone always does every generation. Maybe this is my gold mine...

...Or, much more likely, this idea is merely my feral mind resisting routine and structure. It's like Natalie Goldberg explains in Writing Down the Bones: writing is a practice, a form of meditation. And just as my mind wanders when I try to clear it for meditation, so it does when I try to focus on one idea for a novel. First, I think I need a new computer, or a desk, or a space outside my house. And then the familiar doubt creeps in that my focus is in the wrong place, that I'm writing the wrong story.

But if "write the story you're afraid to tell" is to be my guidepost, I know this is the story I'm meant to tell at this point, werewolves be damned.

...and then life happened.

So, my first packet may be a little late. I've talked to my mentor, and he's fine with it. Of course he is; he's awesome. But I'm disappointed.

I hit my "life limit" this week when my partner got into a car accident. She's fine, but my car isn't. It was the other driver's fault, so either way it's all paid for, but bureaucracy overwhelms me. There isn't much that has to be done, but just the thought of doing it makes me want to hide under the covers until spring.

Luckily, I have tomorrow off: the beauty of working in a school (even if said school is another piece of the pressure and stress right now). The game plan is to land myself a rental car and finish up the final few pages of my packet and craft essay. If I can get it in the mail by Thursday, I could still make my "first week of February" deadline.

On a sidenote: I'm worried that this blog is just going to be self-conscious rants about how little faith I have in myself. Something about writing brings out that "I'm not good enough" side of me. But being this scared means I'm on to something important, I think.