I have moved From The Inside over to a new spot and lay-out right here: From The Inside
It's a continuous work in progress, and I will more than likely be adding more content, more frequently!
xoxo
From The Inside
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
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…
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Ramblings: Recovery (what I remember of it)
About halfway through my pregnancy I started to imagine
those two months I would take off work after childbirth, and conjured up images
of myself being the perfect home builder-mother type person, keeping the house
perfectly clean, laundry done, groceries shopped for and freshly made meals
prepared every day, so that C could come home late at night and heat up his
dinner. Oh yes, I imagined that the first couple of weeks would be difficult,
but after that I would magically snap back into my normal self. Little did I
know that instead of being worried about the last months of pregnancy or
childbirth I should have been preparing for the recovery.
I learnt that there is no “perfect” way to be a mother. You
aren’t going to be that woman in the baby food commercial, hair perfectly
coiffed, matching outfit and wobbly bits miraculously disappeared. And that’s
OK – because you ARE perfect, to your child. You are the most important person
in your child’s life, and that’s the most important thing you keep in mind. Motherhood
is what you make it, and that’s the wonderful part about it all.
Read what you will about pregnancy and childbirth, recovery
is often glazed over (or maybe I glazed over it?). I wish books were more
honest with how hard it actually is. You know when they say prepare meals and put
them in the freezer? DO IT. And not just for a week or two. Make enough for a
month. Stock up on tea and coffee and things that don’t perish easily. Have
take out menus and Seamless on hand because if you often find yourself home
alone with your child and you are breastfeeding you may not find the time to
prepare a meal. And you get HUNGRY. I forgot what it was actually like to be
hungry during those last months of pregnancy, but now my stomach actually
rumbles every few hours. Don’t worry too much of dishes aren’t done immediately
and things get a little dusty – because recovery isn’t called recovery without
reason. You have to rest.
I really thought I would be up and about after 2 weeks.
After 5 weeks I was still nowhere near the image in my imagination of before. I
finally started going out for walks every day. I finally stopped wearing pajama
bottoms and started wearing actual clothes. After 7 weeks I feel a LOT better,
and have been making trips into the city and making it back alive. Going back
to work is something that I never want to have to consider again (um are you
asking me to actually LEAVE my child with someone else?!! No way.), and we
finally have this breastfeeding thing down for the most part (more on that
later). There are so many things that I would like to warn other first time
mothers to be about that I wish I had known (or acknowledged when people were
trying to warn me). Granted, it may be very different for others, but I think I
would have been easier on myself if I had known the toll it would take on me.
No one told me during labour that all the Pitocin and
antibiotics they pumped into me could delay my milk coming in for a bit longer
than average. Or maybe it doesn’t affect everyone like that, but all that
medicine took a toll on my body, maybe more so because I hardly ever take
antibiotics. I mean I don’t ever remember taking any at all! The first night in
the hospital Luna was crying her eyes out, and I kept thinking she must be
hungry, even though I had read that all they need in the first few days was the
colostrum you produce until your milk comes in. The night nurse came in to
check on us and basically told me that my child was starving and that if I
couldn’t feed her properly myself then I needed to give her formula. Even when
I tried to explain that that was not true and I didn’t want to give my child formula
she kept pressing the issue. Those close to me know how important it was for me
to breastfeed exclusively, but after labour and no sleep for 30 hours, a brand
new newborn crying in despair in my arms and someone pushing a solution on me,
I gave in. The next morning, after a few hours sleep I felt like myself again
and was really angry for not being listened to and decided to not let my arm be
twisted again. And yes, the formula did shut her up and comfort her, and yes,
we did give her a tenth of a bottle over the first couple of nights she was
home, but she really disliked it and just wanted to nurse. And nursing was SO
painful. I literally cried in pain and gritted my teeth so that Luna wouldn’t
feel my stress and pain every time she latched on. The lactation consultant I
had seen in the hospital was a complete waste of space (she didn’t even come
near enough to actually show me how to make sure I was doing it properly). When
myy milk finally came in 6 days after birth and so did the cracked and painful
nipples. Breastfeeding is NOT easy, and whoever says it is must have been
really lucky. We struggled for at least 3 weeks to get it right, but I am very
proud of us both for succeeding and persevering. Oh, and you will not starve
your child if your milk isn’t there immediately… Before formula existed women
could only breastfeed (or hand their child over to a wet nurse), so don’t
listen to people who think better. Case in point: Luna actually put on
weight over the first week after her birth and grew 2 inches, and that was NOT
due to the tiny amount of formula we gave her the first few days – it was due
to what I was giving her, however painful it was. I’ve even started to get over
my fear of breastfeeding in public, and even did it in Washington Square Park
without a cover the other day (only because there were other mothers doing it
and I felt less self-conscious – I used a cover on the subway!). I’m aiming on
doing this for a year if possible, even after we start her on solids after 6
months. She’s growing so fast, so it’s definitely doing her the world of good!
I mentioned the subway just above – apart from walking the
only form of transport that I use to get around the city… Luna loves her
carrier (although the one we have plays havoc on my back after a while so we
are saving up to get an Ergo which will help), but if I am going to be out and
about in the city for a while I need to be able to put her down at times, and
this has been impossible the last few times I have taken her out in it. And she
gets really hot in the carrier… It’s a great option for short journeys and if
you are going from one location to another but difficult when you are strolling
around. She also loves the stroller (and I use it when she refuses to sleep
during the day which she does all the time), but the stroller is heavy with the
infant seat in it and I can’t carry it up and down stairs by myself just yet.
So I figured out which stations have elevators and did a trial run the other
day. It’s doable, a little confusing at times (especially 74th St/Roosevelt
Ave), and most people were really helpful and lovely (bar the lady who was in a
rush and shouted at me that some people didn’t have the luxury of staying home
with their kids…). It’s all part of living in the city… And part of the reason
that I really want away from all the stress. I LOVE this city and I LOVE that
it has been my home for the past 9 years, but I am starting to consider a
change… But those thoughts are for another time. In the meantime I won’t let it
stop me from getting out and about, but I will be spending a lot of time out
and about nearer home.
There will be people who
tell you how to parent your child, but I learnt well over the first couple of
weeks that none of that really matters – it’s what works for you as parents and
your child that is the best. I remember being in the drug store with a friend
when Luna started crying while I was paying at the check-out. She literally had
time to let out one little wail when a woman behind me said loudly to the rest
of the people in the store “somebody needs to give that child a pacifier!” Oh
really? I was actually a little shocked and just muttered something about how
rude she was and then posted about it on Facebook. A friend left a comment
about just ignoring these types of comments gracefully, as I would hear them
all of the time, and she was absolutely right. And babies cry, it’s normal. It
may be irritating to others, but no one is going to be able to keep their child
inside until they are two years old, and at the same time, nobody wants to shut
their child up just for the sake of others. There is nothing wrong with a child
vocalizing what they want – and the only way for a baby to do it is by crying. I
have a baby who is very vocal and I am not going to apologise for it! In the
end, I am the one who has been blessed with this beautiful child, and C and I
are the only ones who will have a say in how she is raised.
And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Through-out my pretty
wonderful pregnancy and less than wonderful recovery the main point is that we
created an amazing little human being who is growing and thriving every day. I
already have forgotten the discomfort of the first trimester and the miserable
hugeness of the last two weeks of the third trimester, and at nearly 8 weeks
post partum I have already completely glazed over the pain of the recovery. To
be honest if I hadn’t started writing this 3 weeks ago I probably wouldn’t even
have written anything about it. Because it was ALL completely worth it. I look
at my daughter’s beautiful little peaceful face while she is sleeping and have
to restrain myself from kissing her cheeks every 2 seconds. She smiles at me in
the morning and laughs when I do silly things to make her giggle. It still
blows my mind that C and I were able to create this little person, the most important
action we have ever done in our lives. I’m still completely overwhelmed with
happiness and I doubt this feeling will ever go away!
(Huge thanks to my
friends Tiffany, Ryvenna and Gina for helping me get through the first few
weeks just by answering questions and reassuring me that I was normal, and a
huge thanks to Google for answering many of my questions, allaying many fears
and sometimes for scaring the shit out of me. And another huge thanks to my
doctor Ronnie Lichtman for being there through-out my whole pregnancy, for
answering my questions and for just being a lovely human being. I am really
going to miss all the ladies at MIC Fort Greene).
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Ramblings: Just a Walk in the Park...
Memorial Day weekend always reminds me of moving to NYC –
the heat, the humidity, the laziness of the first holiday of the year since New
Year’s Day in the middle of the bustle and noise of everyday life. Subsequent
years bore beach days and hungover days; brunch times and walks in the city; Long Island days and barbeques in Bushwick.
Every year I longed for Memorial Day weekend to arrive so that I could
celebrate the beginning of summer, my real favourite season in NYC. This year
it crept up on me, my first Memorial Day as a family: a day where no one needed
to work, a day to spend together as we see fit, no plans, just mother, father
and baby time.
Nowadays it’s really just the simple things that matter: a
walk in the park, watching the turtles watching you with their little heads
sticking out of the water, looking at the squirrel scampering away with the
acorn in its mouth, relaxing on a blanket under a tree and closing your eyes.
Choosing a pretty spring outfit for yourself and your daughter, knowing full
well that she doesn’t care if you are in a dress or pyjamas, or if she is in a
onesie or a dress, but doing it anyway because it is fun and because you can. Walking
along the sidewalk as a unit, mother, father, daughter, altogether as one,
making jokes and gazing at the pretty houses and gardens, imagining together
what our next home and garden will look like. Tickling your child under the
chin with a blade of grass and listening to her laugh and hoping that you will
hear that beautiful sound every day, forever.
Flushing ended up being a good choice for us, because
despite the commute into Manhattan, it really is beautiful here. There are
parks and gardens and trees and flowers everywhere and a happy alternative to
the race of the city and all that it entails. As I was walking around the
neighbourhood yesterday I realised just how much every single priority had
changed for the better. A walk in the park is just so much more enjoyable now,
as are all of those little things that we take for granted most of the time,
the turtles and the squirrels and the naps in the grass, the smell of concrete
after a rain shower, and the lilac bushes in bloom on the street corners. I
guess this is what my real happiness is…
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
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.
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