Eeks! Can Writers Make a Living From Their Words?

"Freelance writing's unfortunate new model

With many outlets slashing pay scales, the well-written story is in danger of becoming scarce. The hustle is just beginning for new and seasoned freelancers.

The list of freelance writing gigs on Craigslist goes on and on.

Trails.com will pay $15 for articles about the outdoors. Livestrong.com wants 500-word pieces on health for $30, or less. In this mix, the 16 cents a word offered by Green Business Quarterly ends up sounding almost bounteous, amounting to more than $100 per submission.
Other publishers pitch the grand opportunities they provide to "extend your personal brand" or to "showcase your work, influence others." That means working for nothing, just like the sailing magazine that offers its next editor-writer not a single doubloon but, instead, the opportunity to "participate in regattas all over the country."

What's sailing away, a decade into the 21st century, is the common conception that writing is a profession -- or at least a skilled craft that should come not only with psychic rewards but with something resembling a living wage..."

From ON THE MEDIA -January 06, 2010 James Rainey Los Angeles Times

Read the rest here.

For One Ferocious Moment...

Klaus strides up to the door. His sharp nose, short, sandy hair and dark-gray, fine wool overcoat catch the eye of the woman seated in the cafe’s window table. He would be almost perfectly non-descript if not for the anger radiating from his tense gait. The way he opens the door suggests barely concealed rage, something about the sharp bend of his elbow and the quick yank of his shoulder. Lord, she thinks, I hope he doesn’t have a gun.

Klaus scans the room and pivots on his heel to mistreat the door again. With a deep exhale, she realizes that she had been holding her breath.

Exciting Discoveries

"And over here are the deep-earth minerals." Mick pulled her forward, as eager as a five year old entering the zoo. The look on his face was pure excitement.

Within the case, various lumps of rock were attached neatly to white cards, glimmering slightly in well-placed lights. A range of browns, greys, pinks, blues, and light violets gleamed from the split-open centers of the stones. Marcy was reminded of Easter candies- elaborate bon bons with fruit-infused centers or strange rock-candy concoctions. How much longer til we stop for lunch, she wondered.

Mark drew in his breath and squeezed her hand. "Look! Tarmasym! Oh isn't it lovely? That one is my absolute favorite because it's such an unusual shade of green."

"Mmmm, yes lovely," Marcy murmured her agreement while privately noticing that the loveliest thing of all was the way that Mark was still holding on to her hand.

Suspended

Below the green white surges of the sea, the mermaid trails her fingers through the crystal waters, giving off bubbles like sparks. The delicate silvery bubbles amuse her; they cling to her skin and shimmer against her silver tail like sequins. She finds herself spinning around and through the waters, creating ever larger streams of bubbles that she plunges through for more decoration.

Her laugh is the silver sound of bells, hung from a red ribbon in a doorway. Her movements are not swimming nor dancing, but an effortless floating ripple, motion like sunbeams pouring through the waves.

No reason exists for such happiness. It simply is. Without time, without care, the mermaid weaves her bubbled tapestry of joy.

Embrace

"Husses, Gamma, Husses!" The little girl demanded, holding up her arms. Her hair of tousled blond-white dandelion fuzz stuck straight up as if seconding her excitement, and the smile lighting her chocolate-smeared face. When her grandmother scooped her up in her arms for "husses", the girl squealed with joy and delight.

Lucky are those who have such confidence in being loved, and those who find their confidence rewarded.

Carnival

From his perch on the black trampoline, Ricky watched Eduardo walk by. As usual, he went about his business with a steadfast determination. The greying dusk signaled time to collect the table umbrellas. Eduardo plucked them like bright, overgrown flowers and slung them onto his shoulder, trucking them to the storage closet.

Ricky pushed his blond mop of hair out of his eyes. "Hey, Edweirdo, how's it going?" As usual, Eduardo passed him without any recognition. His lined face stayed impassive, his eyes fixed on the ground a few feet in front of him. The taunts bubbled up in Ricky unchecked.

"Hey, Edweirdo, I think your girlfriend stopped by earlier. She asked me if I was busy tonight."

Nothing. Not even a slowing of his pace.

Ricky had never heard Eduardo talk, never managed to catch his eye. When he wasn't bouncing kids up and down on flexible yellow cords --sticky, horrible, screaming, stinky kids who whined if the didn't scream, and giggled like hyenas if they didn't whine-- when Ricky wasn't bouncing them up and down under the beaming supervision of their misguided parents, this was his one and only goal.

No matter what it took, he would get Eduardo to acknowledge him.

"Hey, Edweirdo. Nice sunset, huh?" Eduardo trudged on, one more time.

He would. He would. He would.

Cosati

She hurried down the street, scarcely sparing a glance to the couples strolling happily along. It seemed like all of them wore faded jeans. They were tall and lean with too much long, dark hair. They meandered with their hands tucked into each other's pockets or laughed at a private joke they murmured with heads bent together.

All Susan wanted to do was get back to her room and shut the door. To sink into the overly white bed amid the fluffed up pillows and forget all about Brett and this whole evening.

When he invited her to Little Italy, Susan should have known better than to trust him again. She really should have. But he promised her a weekend "just like our moon days" at her favorite inn. Dinner at Cosati had been a disaster.

Of course, Brett's wife was in the picture again. When he finally admitted, flushed, fumbling, refusing to meet Susan's eyes that he wouldn't be joining her for the weekend after all, that in fact, he had to be back home by 10 pm before Lisette suspected where he really was, Susan had felt a surge of lightening shoot through her entire body. And just like that, it was over.

Now she wanted to get back and sleep. In the morning, she would leave this town for good and begin her real life.

Writing Life

Behind him, the door swooshes open. She bustles through the kitchen, grabbing and discarding the faded red towel to swipe clean her hands without slowing her pace.

Glad that she has come, and passed him by, he continues his sitting.

Photente. What an odd word, blinking at him from the screen like a footprint on a clean sand beach, like a single set of headlights down an old backwoods road.

In the other room, the yelling starts. A crash signals that she is displeased with something. He hopes the spell will not last too long or be too bad. Once started, she can go on for hours, spiraling through a dark mania of every slight and sorrow. Sometimes she flames out quickly, giving herself a little shake and going on about the household affairs.

The cat escapes the storm of noise in a brown-and-white blur, and dashes under his legs to hide.

Writing in the New Year

Inspired by all the lovely writerly resolutions floating around on blogs, I too aspire to write more during the coming year. I was particularly struck by Terressa's goal of 500 words per day considering that she has younger and more children than I do. Apparently, she's sacrificing her sleep time to do so, which doesn't make me a pleasant or capable person to be around.

Still though, I'm sure I can find more writing time here and there, if I squeeze my schedule a bit. And what I've chosen to write is short pieces - fiction, scenes, vignettes- little dabbles here and there. At least once per day.

I'll begin compiling and get back to you in a week!

What kind of projects will you work on this year?

More of I Am Good, and They Are Also Good

I was struck by this passage while reading last night, thinking, Yes, this is what I believe and how I like to live:

"Never begrudge another man his success, sonny.
Remember, all of us live out our own destinies.
All our lives run on a parallel path-
someone else's success neither pulls us down,
nor does his failure boost us up.

You just focus on... your own work."

p46, If Today Be Sweet, Thrity Umrigar