This article got me thinking.
On the one hand, it purports to be a long read on how journalism is being killed by the gig economy. But I’m not the only one who saw instead someone complaining that they can’t make more than $20K a year writing book reviews and rambling essays like this (which he got paid $1K for, which is about 50 cents a word, which ain’t bad for something requiring zero research).
Here’s the thing: If you want to make a living as a writer, you should get comfy with the idea that sometimes you’re gonna have to write stuff you’d rather not write.
Sex Toys and One Direction
When my day job and I, er, got a divorce, and I convinced The Duchess that I could make money doing freelance writing (a feat I may never equal in terms of sheer improbability), I had no idea how to proceed. Being the author of some admired SFF books and a slew of short stories didn’t mean I had a phone full of editor contacts I could tap for lucrative assignments.
Like a lot of folks, I imagined I knew what freelance writing was: I’d send out some emails suggesting topics to a few editors, someone would buy one and offer me some immense amount of money, and then I’d write this long article. I’d do this a few times a year and be comfortable.
I’m sure some writers manage to do that, but … not me. I didn’t even know where to start, so I found content mills, where you can get some very terrible writing work without trying too hard. I had bills to pay, and a wife to impress. I didn’t have two years to figure it out, I needed an income immediately if not sooner. So I took anything I could get. I wrote blog posts for a penny a word. When I made it to two pennies a word, I was depressed as hell but kept going. I wrote catalog copy for sex toys. I ghostwrote a blog about One Direction.
I didn’t want to write any of this, and I certainly didn’t want to write it for two fucking cents a word. But I did, because it was work. And I slowly found my way to better jobs. I worked steadily and got more clients and better-paying clients until I was finally able to quit the really awful jobs and establish myself, and it was all a messy mix of luck and doing the work. I wrote stuff I didn’t want to, because it was my job, not some genteel dream I could indulge.
Even today, when I make quite a lot more than two cents a word, I still write a lot of stuff I’d rather not. Because it’s a job.
Of course, some writers do better. Some cold-pitch like wizards and land in glossy magazines their first try. Some people are better than me. Some are better at networking, or luckier, or more privileged. I accept that; I’m not the smartest man in the room and just because I toiled in the lower hells of freelance writing for a few years doesn’t mean there isn’t a better way. But I do know this: No matter how successful you are as a writer, the fundamentals still apply: Do the work.