writing

Freelance Writing: This is What it Feels Like to be Exhausted by What You Love

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Writer Hunter S. Thompson, while probably feeling similar to the way I feel about my laptop after writing and editing all day, prepares to shoot his typewriter to smithereens.
Writer Hunter S. Thompson, while probably feeling similar to the way I feel about my laptop after writing and editing all day, prepares to shoot his typewriter to smithereens.

A month or so ago, I got the idea in my head that I needed to become a freelancer. Like, now. Despite the fact that I am only a rising college sophomore, despite the fact I have little experience in my writing representing anyone other than myself, I decided to take the plunge.

Surprisingly, it’s been working out great.

I feel this immense gratification in knowing that there are people out there willing to not only pay for my work, but swear to heavens that its worth more than the $5 they paid me for it.

That’s right. Just $5.

Because I have virtually no experience, I searched for ways to gain experience while online. That’s when I happened upon a freelancer blog talking about Fiverr. I decided to sign up for the site. Things started slow for the first few day and then suddenly, they rocketed off. It’s barely been a month since I’ve signed up for the site an I’m already rated as a Level One seller because of the orders I’ve fulfilled and the views my Gigs get.

I’m earning money doing what I love. However, it still manages to be demoralizing. I’m giving my 100% to people who are just paying my $5 in the hopes that eventually that $5 will turn into $15 an hour somewhere, somehow.I have high hopes for myself and in the process of making sure my “hopes” turn into a “reality,” I am exhausting myself.

I wake up and write, edit, write some more, edit again, copy edit, write even more, and maybe ever top all of this off with some web coding because, really, I am a renaissance woman and I’ve dared myself to do it all. Whatever I can do, I am doing. Even things I thought I couldn’t pull off, I am pulling them off. I’ve crossed that line to where bullshitting has turned into “Hey, you actually good at this!”  I often think that I won’t make this deadline nor that one, but by jove, I ‘m doing it and I’m doing it well. 

Well, at least that’s what people tell me.

Anyway, despite all this success and the immense gratification I feel in completing and reading over  my work, I’m in desperate need of being able to write for myself without the thought of work hovering over me. I need the time to read for myself without the thought of 5 approaching deadlines.

I wonder how full-time freelance writers live with themselves. You can’t create your own schedule, despite what hundreds of blogs say. You are at the will and mercy of those that order your services. You will always be on someone else’s deadline, that is if you feel a sense of urgency with every job that you receive like I do. Taking a break threatens your income. There are no retirement funds. There is no paid leave. You have no provided safety net unless you earn enough to create one yourself.

If I do decide to become a professional freelance writer (I guess I kinda already am?), my life will also consist of a normal 9-5 that will most likely be A) working at Wal-Mart or B) working as an IT specialist (aiming for choice B, of course). I hear having a steady, traditional job in addition to freelance work is the fate of most freelancers. Whoever earns a living off just writing is incredibly lucky and has internal patience that only years of meditation could give me. If I were them, I’d want a break. My hands would start to hurt. My mind would start to dull. My standards would slowly but surely diminish. I would need to breathe.

But you know what a journalist told a crowd me along with a crowd of other aspiring writers at a journalism conference? That when you write about life for a living, when you write for people and not yourself, there’s no such thing as breath that lasts longer than a few hours.

Could I survive like that? Right now, I’m saying no, but maybe I’ll be saying yes in the future.

There’s still much to learn. In the meantime, I have to get back to writing and editing six articles I have due by tomorrow…

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Revelations

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2.
In my sleep, I cry
Because —
My existence will melt
Before these lines are ever read.

4.
These hands are
Sad and unsure and immobile.
They produce Xerox poetry
From a barely functioning woman.

3.
I am so, so, so tired of
Heavy-lid-weak-muscle-Xanax-numb
Kind of dreams.
Read the rest of this entry »

Don’t Stop Talking

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Don’t stop talking.

Let me hear the echo of your voice

Resonating against the chambers of my head.

Don’t stop talking.

Maybe I’ll still hear you when I’m

Fall —

Fall —

Falling.

Don’t stop talking,

But don’t you touch me.

Don’t you grab my shoulders.

Stay back.

Let me hear you

Before I crack against the mountain side.

So don’t stop talking.

Don’t stop. Read the rest of this entry »

50 Word Story: “Reckoning Tree”

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For years, an ancient oak tree stood in front of Tribekean’s household, hiding an already clandestine family. Not until a sunshine December 1989 day did the tree snap to reveal a darkness never seen before by mankind. No records detailing the day remain. Historian hands lock up attempting to scribble it down.

Prompt: Fifty

Identity Crisis in the Prompt Abyss

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Recently, I’ve taken to the desperate world of “writer prompts” in search of inspiration. It’s a lucrative business. Writers too lazy or too empty to find their own ideas scour the internet for pre-packaged ones and often those too lazy or too empty to expand on their own ideas cast them to abyss for others to take care of. (To those prompt-writers that actually write on their own prompts, I give you props.) Prompt-hunting for me is an embarrassing adventure. I feel like a hypocrite every time. How in the hell can I spew on and on about how much writing means to me when I A) barely do it and B) hardly have any ideas for where to take it? Of course, this feeling of hypocrisy arises in me several other questions about myself.

  1. Do I have the right to call myself even a hobbyist writer?
  2. If writing is just a trite blurb in my sphere of enjoyment, what means more to me and why am I not willing to admit that it means more?

And the most troubling question of all . . .

3.  How much of a difference is there between the real me and the me I portray to others and especially to myself?

This questioning of myself prompts me to go into identity crisis mode. I often find myself glazing over the answers for all three questions because I just don’t want to fucking deal it. If I question my love of writing, I’ll then question my love of literature, which will be followed by me questioning the gap I’ve created between my identity and who I really am thus charging myself with a personal felony — serial self-deception.

But as I write this blog entry, an alternative state of mind comes to me. If I apply my outward bluntness to myself, what answers will I find?

Whatever those answers may be, I know that I won’t be ready to tell them to blogging world until I personally reconciled with them.

Bloggers,writers, and general commentators, have you ever had difficulty aligning your identity with reality? If so, how did you get the two to align?

Announcement

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I’m currently considering submitting one of my poems to a poetry magazine. In order to do this, I have to take the poem that I choose off all my writing sites. So if you see a poem suddenly disappear, the piece is the chosen one. I was battling deciding whether I should post my latest on here or not and in the end, I decided not to because this is a less controlled area than dA and I’m more likely to get feedback on my other site.

Please be patient with me for I have multiple pieces of various lengths and of various types in the work so I can get this site back on a regular schedule.

The Edge and the Immobile Catcher

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Her lips were so cracked and bloodied, they looked as if she had attempted to carve every negative self-commentary she had ever thought into the crevices of her thin, pink lips. Her face — florescent pale and glue quality pasty — hadn’t seen the sun since Microsoft has seen innovation. She had been reduced down to nothing but the clothes that loosely draped over her back and the sickly thoughts that dragged themselves through her mind. She wanted nothing more to do with herself. She wanted to pull her brain out of her skull and place it in a jar next to her heart and spirit. To never think again meant tranquility. No more disturbances from the demons that ran amok  in her veins. No more thoughts or whispers of an indelicate, blade-equipped word. Her soul was made of the thinnest of paper soaked in the most polluted of water. She had nothing to offer the world except a dim sense of self and utter disillusionment. The black-and-white world advertised to her as a child turned out to be instead grayscale. 

Was she worth saving?

To her, not in the least bit anymore.