Why I regret for free.
Writing for free was a lot harder when I started out, but I managed to avoid it. I’ve been paid very, very badly, but free I don’t do for anyone other than myself. Some new writers today accept exposure or freebies instead of getting nothing for their work. Go right ahead, but remember: pubs that pay writers in exposure (or popcorn shrimp) tend not to value writing. And guess what, they show it by not paying for it, or by paying next to nothing for it. Writers shouldn’t be afraid to do the same and dodge writing for places like that.
Summer intern blogging about the party circuit in the Hamptons sounds like an extra-special circle of hell.
Oooh, YM “leftbar” story idea: a sober night at the Talkhouse. Perhaps I’ll get on that this weekend. I wonder how much I can invoice to Krucoff for that one?
Really, I have nothing to add to the whole free milk debate, which is so yesterday anyhow, because I live on the dark side. I chose to take the money and run away with half the balance in your 401k’s. Or your parents’ 401k’s, as the case may be.
***
I have two dear friends with two very different mothers. Last summer, having heard the news of a pending promotion, one of them leaned over to me conspiratorially. “Remember when you were so upset about that silly job at Sports Illustrated?” she smirked, condescension dripping onto my lap. “Can you imagine if you had actually worked there?”
Well, yes, I could imagine, and I did so often. Sometimes not so privately, I guess, because the other mom took me aback a few weeks later when a propos of nothing she shook her head and looked hard into my face. “When on earth are you going to quit that soulless job and write?” Her tone was pleading. “It’s so obvious it’s what you really want to do. And you’ve always been such a good writer!”
Her opinion of my body of work was, to be fair, rose-colored by the fact that during my erstwhile “reporting” “career” I had frequently authored glowing pieces about her son, but I appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. What I didn’t so much appreciate: the implication that I was really nothing more than a dirty sellout.
But I totally was! And I totally am. And I probably will continue to be.
***
The process for applying to and interviewing for a position in my current industry was as slick and well-oiled as the hair of my male colleagues. Resumes were due, online, in early December of my junior year. Mere weeks and dozens of interviews and train rides to New York later, it was mid January and I was in possession of a cushy summer job offer for six months hence.
I had no idea what I’d be doing in this job, or even why I’d be doing it, but I knew that I was lucky to have a role that would “open doors” while providing “generous compensation”.
Time heals all wounds, but in my case not so much. In March of that year I got a call congratulating me on receiving a summer internship at Time Inc (Sports Illustrated, specifically) that I had, with great hand-clasping hope, applied for aaalll the waaaay back in October and promptly forgotten about in a sort of preemptively-remove-your-crush’s-number-from-your-cell-phone kind of way. I politely thanked the woman and explained that unfortunately I had already committed to a job for the summer, and then I hung up and cried and cried and cried.
This was the continuation of a trajectory of pragmatic greed that had begun a few months earlier when I opted not to edit the sports section of our college daily (for free) in favor of editing and writing for the official university athletics website (for pay). There were plenty of reasons I made that choice, among them that I adored the paper’s masthead the year above me but wasn’t all that tight with the leadership in my own class. Also, not being stuck tinkering with layout at 1am on a Thursday night gave me more time to drink at 1am on a Thursday night. Shut up, college! But yes, the $ was a factor in my choice. And so, not surprisingly, I chose poorly.
Sometimes I wish I could pick up those particular forks in the road, Yogi Berra style, and use them to stab myself. This is the definition of regret.
***
I have no bylines and no resume. Any publication worth its weight in newsprint (or pixels, as it were) would be foolish to consider compensating me in anything other than a pat on the head (or a few drinks and a pat on the ass). Reading about how hard people have to fight simply to avoid working for free and watching as writers I love and admire and respect and devour lose their jobs systematically - one by one or, more often, five at a time – leaves me discouraged for everyone and disappointed in myself. Because if they can’t do it, how on earth would I?
As a girl I read every Sports Illustrated cover to cover. Even, and it pains me to admit this, Rick Reilly. I filed away each issue in a bin, assuming that someday my fastidious collection would be of some use, of some benefit. I was wrong: in December, the magazine slashed much of its staff, a distinct (albeit tardy) signal that the once-mighty had fallen. Those old magazines sure take up a lot of space.
But I was also wrong, way more wrong, when my friend’s mother rolled her eyes and casually dismissed “that silly job” I could have had, and I could not think to do anything except nod meekly in agreement.
