17 posts tagged “writing”

Ya know how I've been talking about those freelance writing goals?

Well, here's my start: Pam's EduBook Page

For those of you who are also interested in this kind of writing opportunity, here's what I've found so far:

1. Unlike other "freelance content" sites, they review some writing samples from you before accepting you as a writer. I actually found this encouraging, as it means they have standards.

2. You don't get to write about "whatever you want." They assign you article topics in batches of four. However, when I applied part of the information they wanted was what my areas of interest are in terms of writing, since they do consider this when doling out work to their writers. I said "career development, writing, education, relationships and pets" and so far all the assignments I've been given relate to one of those categories.

3. They pay $5 per article, and want 500 word articles (not much at all if you are as wordy as I am!)

4. The manager and editors are very responsive and communicative. They expect articles to fit a certain style (concise, heavy on keywords related to your topic, etc). The editor gives very encouraging, friendly and helpful feedback.

5. They pay as soon as they approve your articles, via Paypal.

Granted, I've only been involved for a little over a week, but I'm very pleased so far!

Note: This isn't the type of entry I usually post in Vox. But I wrote it for my private journal this morning and for some reason decided to put it here too. I guess now and then, even in my "happy place" blog, I need to give a glimpse of the other sides of me. I've toned it down a little here - I tend to go *f-word* happy in the journal where I'm a bit more raw, but here it is just the same. Sorry if I come off as a whiny wanna-be Hemingway.

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So, last fall I entered 3 writing contests, which also sort of doubled up as submitting work for publication, since the outcome of “winning” was also getting published.

I wrote a while back that I took second place in one of those contests. I was soundly rejected by the other, as expected. My piece wasn’t their style and probably not up to par with their standards, either. They’re all, I dunno … literary.

I never heard a thing from the third one, even though the deadline had long passed. I figured that meant I hadn’t gotten anywhere, was a little disappointed, told myself I had no right to be disappointed since I’ve never submitted anything but articles to anyone anywhere before now. For an aspiring writer of any kind, submitting things to three places and getting accepted and paid by one isn’t bad. It’s pretty good, even.

But this week, I got an email from the editor of the third one – the one I’d written off as another rejection. I didn’t place in the contest. But they do want to publish my work in the anthology that comes out of the contest – and pay me for it. Not a huge amount - $100.00. But still, we’re talking about a piece that took me about 3 hours to compose, and that wasn’t something I researched or agonized over. It was just one of those wonderful “sit down and let words flow” experiences.

So, I got something for two out of three. It ain’t perfect. I wasn’t “discovered” and I’m sure not the next big thing. But dammit. That’s a record that’s full of promise and potential and validation of my talent. It is the closest thing to proof that I have what it takes that I’ve ever received.

Yet, I haven’t written a thing since I played around with those contests last fall. Oh, I’ve blogged and journaled my butt off. That’s easy. I can do it when I am braindead and exhausted, when I am not quite awake at 5 am or ready to collapse after a 12-hour workday. I can do it when I am simultaneously making project deadline updates or compiling task lists for work in my head. Blogging is a multi-taskable venture.

You can’t – or at least *I* can’t, write good fiction or nonfiction that way. I’ve tried, on and off. But I’m always such a lump of anxiety and frustration about WORK that I haven’t gotten anywhere with it for a long time. When I write “for real,” I have to be in a zone where the rest of the world disappears for a while. And I have completely lost my ability to cocoon myself that way, even for short stretches of time, ever since the project went haywire. The pressures of my job come crashing in without fail whenever I try to go to my creative place. I end up beating myself up because something for the job is behind and I should be doing that instead. When I try to turn it off, I end up writing drivel. So I give up. 

I am giving them the best of me for a paycheck. And leaving nothing left over for myself and my dreams. And I’m so caught up in it and trapped that I sure as hell don’t know what to do about it. Or, I do know what to do about it, but am far too scared. I’m so overwhelmed with it that I can’t even clean out my own brain.  

And really, it is so discouraging. I feel like I have “wasted potential” slapped right in the center of my forehead. I’m traveling full speed ahead down the road to “could have been” because I’m not strong or good enough to do BOTH (write and work the way I have to work) and I can’t stop working or figure out a way to do work that is less stressful, time-consuming and life-sucking and still keep my home and my necessities.

These are the days that I wish I had the body and free-spiritedness of a stripper. I mean, who am I to think that kind of work is selling your soul and your dignity when I do the same damn thing with my clothes on every workday? And I do it for 10-12 hours instead of just dancing a set.

That email should have made me happy. And it did. But it was also a big flashing sign that said “see what you could be, with more time and effort.” If I don’t get tough enough to do both (maybe 6 hours of sleep a night isn’t as important as I think?) or brave enough to walk away from guaranteed money, I am going to be one of those people who says they could have been a contender.

In some ways, knowing you COULDN’T have been one is easier. At least you don’t feel like you wasted yourself.

I hate money. I hate always struggling with it and bowing to it and needing it. I hate that I am not serene and accepting and loving enough to stop feeling bitter because I’m surrounded by those who just HAVE it, who don’t struggle for it and sacrifice their gifts and passions, but live lives of leisure or relative leisure and still never have to worry about where a bill or a new shirt is coming from.

I do what I do, and Lee does what he does, and we still struggle. We're putting off our (relatively low-cost) home improvements yet again and can't afford a new phone for him even though his is broken if we also want new brakes for the van, and we will take no real summer vacation because we have to pay an increase in property taxes. We work ourselves to the bone and give up our passions, and for WHAT? But knowing it is as hard as it is now to stay afloat makes it far too frightening to take the dive into leaving what I do for a smaller paycheck so that I can try to chase a dream. 

Why is life this way?   

I've been a scribbler as long as I can remember. As a child, I would often spend weekends traveling from Maryland to West Virginia with my grandparents. On the way, my grandmother would tell me stories of her childhood, growing up in the country with 5 brothers and sisters, as Grandad drove.

Those stories of a life and time so different from my own fascinated me, and I started writing them all down in the big block letters than only a child can do right. I wrote a booklet of family memoirs again in 1999, in my late 20's. Thankfully, there's a big difference in my writing skills between the first attempt and that one. Along the way, I made a lot of other attempts at telling the stories of our family.

Grandmom has kept every single one of those scribbled tales, from the ones done in crayon to the carefully word processed and bound adult efforts. She even kept the one where I tried illustrating. Of course, I'd chosen to draw an outhouse, because I was fascinated by the fact that my great-grandparents in West Virginia didn't have an indoor toilet until I was 7 or so.

When my 10-year-old niece visits my grandparents, Grandmom pulls out all those booklets and the two of them sit on the couch and pore over them. My niece has recently started writing down her own tales. Like I did at her age, she puts these little stories together and gives them to my Grandmom as gifts on Mother's Day, or just because.

She tells the same tales of country kids from another era growing up in the mountains. But she also tells her own stories - her trips to the cabin with my parents, her first experience riding a horse, getting into mischief with her friends. 

In her most recent tale, she writes of how my grandmother told her that she misses my stories. It has been a long time since I've written any. And so, my niece continues, she decided to start writing her own, so Grandmom wouldn't miss them anymore. She says "that's the magic of family," how she can be like me in that way and pick up that torch.

This little girl writes with a descriptiveness and flow and insightfulness that amazes me and makes me so proud. I got a little misty-eyed on Mother's Day, when I was reading her most recent tales. I was the kind of kid you would expect to sit around writing - a little shy and introverted, gawky and unsure of myself and my place in the neighborhood pecking order. My niece isn't that kid. She's outgoing and into just about anything from dance to swimming. But she writes anyway, and it is evident that she's got the bug.

 She writes. She writes beautifully, and with the voice of someone who will always want and need to write. And that makes me so proud and happy.

If you're at any job long enough, you start to notice signs of the passage of time. When I started at my current workplace, there were secretaries working in Word and databases who remembered having to do letters on typewriters. Stick around like they do (or like I have, since that was ten years ago), and you see changes in how you do your work, office fashions, and bosses. Co-workers who were young and single when you started are grown-up and married with children.

That's anywhere you work. For me, I have the added layer of my employer also being the college where I earned my degree. I started working there 3 years after graduation. When I returned, all the faculty who had been in the English department (my major) were pretty much still there, except for my advisor, who had hightailed it for a life of freelance writing.

Over time, they've retired or moved on. A few have passed away. The prof I remember most for the bright blue socks he wore with sandals and the way he always seemed incredibly nervous in front of a classroom is now directing an honors program across the country.

Last week, I ran into one of my old instructors, Mike, at the cafe where a lot of us grab lunch. We ended up grabbing a table and eating together, catching up. Back in my student days, he was a younger man who taught a few creative writing courses. He also taught a transcendentalist lit class that I absolutely loved. Instead of sitting in our stuffy classroom, we'd take our books out to the pond on campus when the weather allowed and just talk ... freeform, mostly, about what we were reading. I got more out of that class than most of my others. He was a poet too. I remember going to a reading when he published his first book of poetry and feeling honored that I was working on my own writing skills with someone so talented.

We spent some time catching up. He told me he hoped I was still reading and writing, and I assured him I was. I didn't tell him most of my writing tends to be process documentation for work or blogs about weasel poop these days. We realized during our conversation that only he and one other faculty member from my student days are still around. I'm in touch with the other one now and then too. I call that one "The Poet," because he was one too.  

Being with him made me embarrassed about not spending more time on my words, even though it was good to see him. It reminded me that I've veered off track and while I've made quite a career for myself, it often has little to do with what I wanted to be back when I was his student, sitting in a patch of sunlight with Leaves of Grass open in my lap.

But then as I listened to Mike talk about what he's doing now, it hit me how much we've all changed. Mike still teaches creative writing. But he also runs the writing program, and spends an awful lot of his time doing administrative stuff and dealing with bureaucracy. I get the sense that he likes his leadership role. But sometimes, like me, it grates on him, because it eats away time and energy that was once spent creating. The good news is that this means I'll be working closely with Mike at some point in my project, as part of it will be setting up degree audits and graduation processes for all of our programs. Some of the faculty I'll be working with are tough personalities at times. It is reassuring to know I'll also get to work with a friend. I may even ask Mike to go first, so I can iron out my own rougher edges with it while working with someone who won't give me hell.

So that encounter was good. But a small part of me felt a little sad when I went back to my office after lunch. I realized I missed the days when Mike was the age I am now and I was barely in my 20's, and we read and wrote and wrote and read and bureaucracy and task lists weren't as big a part of our days. I missed them for me, and for Mike too.  

We're still here, I thought. But we're different. The passage of time is marked.

The link to my interview for Women on Writing's blog went up today. I got a flashback to that psyched feeling I got when I found out I'd won the contest when I saw it. That feeling is extra good on a Tuesday, since that's a day that normally tends to suck : ).

Women on Writing Blog - Pam's Interview

I wrote a while back about entering a few writing contests recently. I was all kinds of excited yesterday when I logged in to one of the contests at Women On Writing and learned that I took second place.

You can see the contest details and my essay, as well as those of the other winners and runners-up, here:

Women On Writing Fall 2007 Contest

I am in quite a happy place about this. I know it doesn't mean I can quit my day job, but it is a much needed ray of hope that maybe somehow, someway, I CAN get there.

As if that wasn't good enough news, The Giants just scored a touchdown, which only helps my happy. AND I am finally starting to get Madden football just a little.

The simple things in life rock, and the Sunday night "oh crap Monday is almost here" blues are a bit less biting when you've got a glimmer of hope that you might figure out how to keep Mondays from being awful one of these days.

What was your major or field of study in college? Did you wind up working in that field or using that degree? If not, what field have you wound up in? 
Submitted by sneuf. 

I majored in English with a minor in journalism. The plan was to go into journalism work right out of college. But when I started job hunting, the pay scales for entry-level positions in the field at the time gave me pause. I was actually making more working my 3 part-time college jobs than I would have in most of the full-time entry level copy editor/lowly reporter/editorial assistant jobs out there at the time. My debt kept me from having the balls to just go for it, so I took a position at a college instead - of all things doing job placement and career coaching for other students!

That was 13 years ago now, and I've been in higher ed ever since. I do have to say that I use the skills I honed earning that degree every day though, whether it is in writing proposals, web content, training materials, or just being able to communicate effectively in meetings where people won't listen to you unless you use big words. I'm one of the few in higher ed management who doesn't have a master's degree herself, and I can only attribute that to the name of the game being solid writing and communications abilities.

There are many days I wish I would have made a go of it at writing. But part of me is glad things turned out this way. I write on my own terms now, and if I make it in that field it will be by my own design and not based on the demands of some employer. That keeps my love of it alive- sometimes when you do something for a living on someone else's terms you run the risk of losing your passion for it.

In spite of the fact that I have an 8 a.m. meeting this morning (what ARE they thinking, anyway?), and I had trouble sleeping last night and didn't want to get up this morning, I'm in a surprisingly good mood.

That's because I got something cool in an email. It had nothing to do with penis or breast enlargements for a change, either (seriously, the SPAM gods really want to cover all their bases, don't they?)!

Earlier this fall, I entered a few writing contests. I've been trying to get more serious about composing things other than blog entries, and this was a way to motivate myself. I haven't heard back from one yet - a short story contest I was pretty sure even when entering was out of my league at the moment, but said what the heck anyway. The other doesn''t even close until after the holidays. But the third one, an essay contest, wrote to let me know I'm in the top 10 that are being moved on to the final level. They won't announce winners until January, but still, being a finalist rocks enough for me at the moment. I figured I'd have to do a lot more of this before even getting this far.

On a totally unrelated note, I thought this was kind of neat:

Snowpigeoncoop

Pigeontomato

Those photos were both taken from my side deck, within 3 months of each other. Amazing the difference a little wintry weather can make, huh? The pigeon coop belongs to my neighbor. They're the only things I've ever seen him talk to. They're kind of fun to have around. When you're in the backyard, you can hear them make these weird, whirring and cooing noises that are kind of soothing.

Then again, I'm the one with weasels. I like odd choices in pets.

Dear Vox,

I'm back. Did you miss me? No, well OK. I don't blame you. I discarded you, slipped away in the night much like a drunk guy sneaking out of the bedroom of the girl he picked up at 2 a.m. before the sun comes up. It was wrong of me, and I'm sorry.

But let me explain.

I was a lost blogger, trying to find my way in a great big world. I'd been at Diaryland for years. People kind of consider it a place where online scribblers put on their training wheels, I know. But it had been good to me, and so I stayed and stayed. But my writing there turned more into a real diary, and although I probably have as much 'hey - look at me!" in me as anyone else, I do have a little pride. Plus, I say the f-word a lot there.

So, I locked that journal down, and keep it there for myself and my Diaryland friends who read it. Shortly after making that decision, I realized I had to venture out into the blogging world and find myself a new home. That's when I found you.

I liked you, I really did. But I was sort of a blogging tramp at the time. I checked out Wordpress, Blogspot, and you. I gave Wordpress up pretty quickly. It was cool, just not my type, I guess. I hung on to Blogspot and you, but found myself growing attached to Blogspot. Before long, I was seriously neglecting you.

So, what has made me come crawling back? Part of it is that some long-time friends of mine seem to have so much fun here. But I was coming by to check in on their lives anyway. I didn't need to start blogging here again to do that.

So let's be honest. The truth is, my needs are growing and changing. All my life, I've always been a wordie. I love writing and reading. I'm addicted to hearing myself type. But lately, something else has happened. The love of my life got me a digital camera for my birthday. He and I have been playing with it like two happy kids ever since. Suddenly, I find myself getting into the whole photo thing almost as much as I'm into words. I want to play in a place where it is fun and easy to blend the two.  

And you know what? The other blogging options out there all rock in their own ways. But when it comes to the ability to organize, maintain and post photos (especially when you're a self-proclaimed airhead like me who doesn't want to have to think a whole lot about the whole thing), you are miles ahead. You are the Patriots in that respect, with the rest of the blog sites that I've explored limping along behind you - even the good ones.

So it seems I'm back. Don't be mad at me for being fickle. How can you be upset at this face?

I'mtheWeezil

3 comments

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I'm still alive and kicking. Well, actually work is kicking me, right where none of us want to be kicked.

Anyway, I've been absent here of late because I've been devoting a lot more time to my other blog, over at Writing, Work and Weasels. When I felt the need to branch out from my original online journal site at Diaryland, I experimented with a few different places. This seems to be the one that's sticking the most. So I've linked up my former D-land reads who are also now writing elsewhere, so I can get to their new blogs easily (Janie and Nicole, that means you!).

Anyway, I'm not giving up this space. I just don't want anyone to think I've fallen off the blogsphere because I don't post here as much these days.