Ramblings: Attempting the Freelance World Again

Every so often I go through this same procedure and just give up because it all just seems too hard. And I’m not one for giving up. I’m stubborn enough to butt my head against a wall until I crack it and it all comes down, brick by brick. But I just feel so lost whenever I try to break into this industry, probably because I am not confident enough in my own talent to really push for it, but also because I really don’t know where to start. And where do you start? The world of freelance writing is so huge and so daunting that you can try and jump in the deep end and see what kind of creatures you may encounter in the depths, or you can dip your toes in the shallow end and decide to walk away until the water gets warmer. But how does the water get warmer?

Four years ago I tried. I set up profiles on freelance websites, applied for different job listings and did some work for a company in India that was paying about $0.01 cents a word to write SEO articles. That lasted a week – my writing was worth much more than that. I wrote some pretty interesting articles for a blog, and was never credited for them (I can still see them up there for everyone to read), and was paid a little bit more than a pittance for them. Then I decided that I would rather write articles for my own blog, because at least I could give myself credit for it and write about what I wanted. So I basically gave up. At the time I just took on another job on top of my regular bartending job and focused on writing for myself in my free time.

This time around I have decided that I am going to try a bit harder. This is what I have always wanted to do: work from home as a writer. And now I’m even more motivated – I’m at home raising my daughter and therefore have flexible hours to write. And I’m good at it – I love writing about just about everything, I love doing the research, I love that feeling of excitement you get when you write the first draft and the words are coming out faster than you can type. I love going back to a draft to edit it and realizing that it really sounds good, that the tone and the style and the words all work, and that it is something you would want to read. I just love to express myself with words. It’s what I have been doing all my life. And to get paid for doing what I love? Who wouldn’t want that?

So how on earth do you start? I’ve read countless articles on what to do and where to go and how much to charge. But how do you REALLY get in there? How do you start selling your product for the correct price? Yet again I set up profiles on freelance sites. Yet again I started to bid for projects. And yet again I feel like it’s just not worth it. This time it’s not about my confidence – I KNOW I am good, and I know I can produce excellent copy. This time it’s about what I would be getting paid. I looked up freelance writer rates online, thought back to what we would pay our translators, editors and proofreaders when I worked for a translation agency and came up with what I think are correct rates. On the low end, but not selling myself short. The first ad I answered was very interested in what I could do for them (research and provide 2 blog articles a week on the bar and restaurant industry, showcasing people, drinks, food, locations etc); but told me I was expensive. I haven’t heard back again, but we will see about that one. Then yesterday as I perused through an email I receive on a daily basis from one of the freelance sites I saw an ongoing editing and proofreading job. Perfect – something to get me in there, start getting somewhat of a reputation, right? Something I know I can do very well seeing as I did it for years. And then I saw what they are paying. $1 a PAGE. $1 a page to edit, probably research, and proofread a copy? Are they completely insane?? Are there really people out there who work for that type of money? This means that in order to make $100 in a day you need to edit and proofread 100 pages. Assuming that there are about 250 words per page (industry standard) and that you proofread on average 1,000 words per hour, if you worked a 12 hour day you would therefore be making a whopping $48 at $4 an hour. And this is assuming that you have nothing else to do for 12 hours and that the copy is not too bad. If you did this for 7 days straight you would make $336 before tax at the end of the week. Do it for a month and your pay would be $1,344. Nope, NOT worth it. Who on earth works for these rates? And yes, I know that it’s possible to do the work a lot faster, but what kind of quality are you going to be providing? 

And that‘s the whole point isn’t it? Why would anyone in their right mind provide any kind of quality work if they are being paid a pittance to do so? And who are the people who are actually accepting these rates? How on earth am I ever going to find any kind of work in this industry if these are the jobs I have to accept? It’s extremely disheartening. Should I just give up on the whole idea of being a freelance writer again? How can I prove to potential employers that I have the skills that they need, and that they need to hire me, especially since I don’t have any real experience in the industry? I’m determined to not give in this time as I would like to be able to work from home, in my own time, doing what I love, but I still don’t know where to start. I suppose this is just the beginning of multiple ramblings and rants on the subject…

Short Story: An Angel Passes By

As I am (slowly) putting my website together and applying for freelance writing jobs I have been going through a lot of my writing and trying to group everything together. I noticed that I hadn't posted this story, which is strange as it quite naturally goes with Autumn's Place and Of Instability and Growing Roots. I wrote them all about the same time and with the same frame of mind.
In any case, everyone needs a Marlena in their lives, just to make everything a little brighter and happier. Not long after I write this one Bat For Lashes released her last album, with the song Laura on it, and it really made me think of my own Marlenas. Cherish those friends forever.

An angel passes by ("un ange passe") is a French expression that always takes me back to moments in the dead of the night during my late teens with the friends I grew up with, that moment when everyone goes quiet, contemplating their own thoughts, and then all go back to their conversations at the same time. That silence that doesn't feel uncomfortable, but warm and fuzzy. These are the people that will always be with you, your own personal angels in your lives. I dedicate this one to those who aren't here anymore.

An Angel Passes By

She stood there in her little babydoll dress, her long, skinny arms wrapped tight around her body, as if she were protecting herself from an invisible force that was about to hit at any moment. Her eyes stared wide into the distance, somewhere away from what we could all see around us and her forehead was creased into a frown of concentration. This is always the image I will have of her in my mind, touchable but unapproachable. Surrounded by a ring of fire keeping her away from the rest of us.

She stood there in her skinny black jeans and black velvet jacket, cigarette smoke encasing her body and a bright smile on her face when she recognized a friendly face approaching her. Nothing fake about her smile – once bestowed upon you, you felt like you were the center of attention for a minute; that no one else existed but you in the world. There are so few people on this earth who have the ability to make you feel this way, that when you meet them you cherish their love for life, long after they have moved on to other places and other people. This is the other image I have of her, happiness and sadness, encased in that body with the beautiful face.

Some people leave and their memories fade over time, until they are remembered only when a photo is found, or a random memory pops into your mind. Other people leave a special legacy behind, one that cannot be erased by time, or alcohol, or drugs or age. All I need to do is close my eyes and conjure up her face and all the emotions I felt every time I was in her presence, even after all these years. Her foot prints can be found all over the world, in the many countries that she traveled to and the many people she met and loved along the way. She was never famous, she never felt exceptional in any way, but she simply made everyone she came into contact feel special for a few moments, and those few moments always lasted forever. Some days I walk through the streets of Manhattan and see a swish of long, blonde hair and a cigarette in a hand and my heart stops for a second. Maybe it is her? Maybe she is still here, walking and talking and dreaming and crying and smiling and just simply present. Maybe I can have one last hug, and this time I will know it will be the last and I will remember it forever. I never knew the last time she hugged me would be the last time I felt her touch and smelt her shampoo and perfume floating around me. If I had known, the last time I told her I loved her I would have looked her in the eyes for more than two seconds and would have made sure she knew that I meant it with all my heart. I hope she knew that before she left.

Marlena was one of those people that you felt had always been in your life, however long you may have known them. She arrived in my life randomly one night, a friend of a friend drinking in a bar that we didn’t often frequent. I didn’t really talk to her that night, she was wrapped up in a conversation with another person who didn’t want to surrender her attention, and then she left abruptly, hugging everyone as she made her way to the exit. A few days later I bumped into her on the street, and she smiled at me and invited me to grab a late lunch with her at her favourite restaurant. She gradually introduced me to all of the people she knew in the neighbourhood and I became part of the family of people working and living there. Marlena always had time for a chat, however tired or overworked she was. She had the ability to make me laugh and smile, even when I knew she was having a rough day. And when she was tired or unhappy, all I wanted to do was make her feel better, a small gesture, a hug, a cup of tea at 3am. Anything to get that look of pure gratitude she would give you on those days. 

There are no perfect human beings. If perfection really existed it would be a flat, boring piece of blank wood. Imperfections create the depth that makes someone human. As much as Marlena was an amazing person, she was definitely not perfect. She kept herself distant from certain things, and locked away parts of herself deep inside so that you could not even see a glimpse of them in her eyes. She would turn away when someone tried to get too close and shut down, wary of giving herself fully to another, wary of being hurt again, and having to deal with pain, again. But she would cry openly and sometimes let you into what her life had been and what she wanted to hide from. What she had finally got over and what she was still going through. She could be as stubborn as a bull and would butt heads with people with her strong opinions. I could not even count the amount of times I had seen her jump up and smash her fist on the bar shouting “but you aren’t listening to me!!!” and stomp off outside for another cigarette, ranting under her breath about idiocy and hypocrisy. But two minutes later she would be back, buying rounds of shots for everyone and laughing at the argument that had taken place moments before. There was never a boring moment in her presence.

Marlena taught me how to find the perfect beaches near the city, wild places where the waves would drag in shells and crabs and city trash, where you could sleep at night if you felt like it and you knew you were safe. She showed me special places in the city where the walls were painted with so much art you could spend hours just looking at them. I taught her where to find the best bagels and where to go to feel like you were in the middle of the countryside right in the city. She would sometimes disappear for a few days and apologise when she reappeared, always saying she needed time away, time to herself, time to finish a song, time to listen to her own voice in her head, away from others that were always crowding it. She would wrap her arms around herself and frown worries away until she could smile lightly again. Some days I would walk into her work and see how tired she was despite her smile and other days she would jump up in happiness and throw herself into my arms, a little ball of energy that couldn’t stop itself from showing all her emotions. She was just a normal girl, but one who created a special place in her heart for everyone.

“I think it’s time for a pint – who’s in?”

“Marlena – it’s only Noon! We have stuff to do today!”

“I said a pint, not 20, and I could really murder a Guinness right now. We can have it with lunch, that way we won’t feel like we are just drinking. And let’s call Robert and Liza and Sandy and the rest so they can join us!”

“OK – and here goes our productive Monday. Let the fun and games begin!”

Never a boring moment. Being friends with Marlena meant being friends with everyone she knew. And being friends with everyone she knew meant that you never really felt alone anymore. Some people you liked less than others, some you felt great connections with while others remained acquaintances, but everyone had something in common: Marlena. She loved to be surrounded by friends and watch them interact and be around each other. She loved to try and match make but hated it when people tried to do it to her. She didn’t get angry often, but when she did you could never see it coming until her rage had broken free. After you saw that you tried hard not to cross her or upset her. No one wanted to be on the other side of that!

When I put her in a cab that night and hugged her, telling her I loved her, she asked me to text her when I got home, which was always the last question she asked all her friends when they left the bar. Twenty minutes later I got her text saying she was home safe and getting into bed. She never made it out of bed alive. Her heart just stopped beating, gave up and sent her off to another place. There was no real medical explanation for this happening at such a young age, so we all ended up deciding that she was needed more somewhere else, and that she had given us everything we needed and everything she had to give. That doesn’t mean that I wasn’t devastated… It took me months and months to stop waking up crying and looking at pictures of her. I found it hard to walk down the streets where she used to always be, hard to be in places where I always wondered if she would miraculously walk through the front door. All of her friends banded together and talked about her and stayed friends, but it was always surrounded by sadness. Her presence was always around, but her voice could not be heard anymore.

Even now, years later, we always hold a Marlena party, a night out together where we drink pints, do shots in her honour and get completely drunk and silly. There are people who just won’t go away, even if they are dead and long gone. Marlena is one of those, an angel passing through lives, making them just that little bit better than they were before she arrived. Cherish those Marlenas as they are special people that may not be able to stay long. 

Catch some of their essence before it drifts away elsewhere – it will stay with you for life.