The wonderful thing about the Internet and all of the so-called “new media” we’re enjoying as a result of it is that it’s easier than ever to make your living as a writer—there’s plenty of places willing to pay for quality work, and if you’re ambitious and savvy enough, you can even create your own site(s) to generate revenue.

The terrible thing about the Internet and all of the so-called “new media” we’re enjoying as a result of it is that either there’s more theft of others’ work than there used to be or people just lack a basic understanding of what constitutes improper or illegal use of words belonging to someone else. Maybe a combination of those two things, actually.

And what this means for a lot of writers who work online is that we have to be vigilant about possible content theft. What it means for me is that I feel angry about having to spend time on stopping people from stealing my work, and it makes me very grumpy.
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To further confuse this metaphor, I’ve included a handy photo of a pothole, even though I really did mean a slothole. Which is, of course, an imaginary thing.

Some of the very best advice I’ve ever received on writing for a living without losing your ever-lovin’ mind has come to me by way of my dear friend Joshilyn Jackson. Joshilyn—in addition to being one of my favorite people—is a NY Times bestselling novelist, so when she talks about the writerly life and how to succeed in this business, I listen. She knows whereof she speaks, is my point. And my favorite piece of advice from her, bar none, is this admonition: Don’t be slotty.

I was reminded of this because of a recent post on her blog where she mentioned it, but really the best summation comes from this post of hers which is now several years old. She says:
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I spend an inordinate part of my day reading and answering emails. On that rare occasion (oh, modern connectivity, what a blessing and a curse you are) when I’m away from email for a good-ish chunk of time—say, 12 or even 24 hours—I return to a deluge of messages. Like, several hundred.

This is not because I’m so popular. It’s because some people are just email-happy. I mean, I’m not even counting the stuff that lands in my Spam filter (on the order of 300+ messages per day, in case you’re wondering), but I do get plenty of “let me tell you about our great new product” or “have you checked out this new site yet” sorts of emails. Also, I appear to be permanently stuck on a mailing list for press events in New York City, try as I may to get myself removed. But that’s another topic entirely.

No, the point I want to make today is that there is a right way and a wrong way to approach someone when you’re hoping they’ll respond to you with some advice. And I always thought this stuff was common sense, but given the number of emails I receive which seem to overlook some basic principles, I figured it was time to share.
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I don’t know about you, but my patience for this recession is really starting to wane.

I mean, sure, I talk a good game about how great it is to be a freelancer in times of economic downturn; we’re relatively secure, job-wise, because a single layoff isn’t going to render us completely unemployed… plus we tend to be less expensive than salaried employees, so we’re less likely to be laid off in the first place (and, indeed, may even find ourselves being hired as a direct result of a “regular” employee’s termination. That’s all true, and it’s all good, but I am tired of The Speech.

The Speech starts like this: “Mir, we really love the work you’re doing for us. We wish we could afford to keep you.” It goes downhill from there.
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Every now and then I’m asked to come give a little guest lecture at my local university, and I enjoy doing this because it tickles me to no end that anyone would find me an expert on anything. Also, many college students seem to regard professional bloggers as something roughly on par with unicorns—everyone’s heard of them, but they are regarded as mythical, for the most part.

And then I show up. And I’m neither flashy and glamorous nor some big, fat unwashed hermit who rarely leaves her desk. I look like… an unremarkable, regular person. Probably because I am. I didn’t set out to be a blogger; I didn’t go to school to learn how to do this. And yet, I make my living behind the laptop, and they find that interesting.

Every time I go in to do this, I wonder what to tell them. I’m headed in to a class again this morning, and I’m sitting here pondering what to say.
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My children are pretty well past the Dr. Seuss stage, but we all still find it endlessly amusing to frame discussions involving choices in the manner of Green Eggs and Ham. Could you, would you, in a boat? Could you, would you, with a goat?

Using this context for a discussion that’s apt to make my head explode is a nice way to attempt to keep it light, I think. And so, today, I ask my fellow writers:

Would you write crap and append your name?
Would you extol a product that’s lame?
Could you, would you, on your blog?
Could you, would you, for a client’s dog?
Where’s the line when “selling out?”
Does it make you want to scream and shout?

(And yes, I’m aware that it’s a very good thing I’m not being paid for my poetry.)
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This is a topic I keep coming back to because I see it coming up again and again, in various forums, and it’s something about which I feel very passionate. I talked about steps to setting your freelancing rates last year, and now I’m going to do it again.

On a discussion list for writers I frequent, it came up innocently enough: “A major parenting publication has asked me to blog for them,” wrote a fellow writer, “and they want to know how much I’ll charge. How do I decide? I’ve heard everything from $5 a post to $25 a post.”

And then I put my head down on the desk and wept in frustration, because I don’t want to hear “major parenting publication” and “$25 a post” in the same sentence. Ever. Yet it’s still very common, and that’s because writers are not demanding their worth. So consider me your esteem coach for the day. Ready? You might want to have a mirror handy.
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My office is located at the side entrance to our house, which means that anyone familiar (read: everyone except people who want to stop by and sell us some Jesus) comes in through the door, here. This is to say that my office tends to be a main thoroughfare, in addition to being a fairly sunny space (which I enjoy). Nevertheless, I often refer to the office as My Cave. As in, “I just need to get back to hiding in my cave so that I can get some work done.”

I’m well-suited to working from home; I like being alone, and other than the, erm, occasional baking session, I’m fairly disciplined about tending to my work when I’m here. I’m able to bury my head so deeply in what I’m doing that sometimes when the kids get home from school, I’m still in my bathrobe. I’m not saying this is a good thing, just that it happens. I get lost in my work, and I enjoy it.

But I fear I’m starting to become a Weird Writer.
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I’ve been doing a lot of baking recently. And while I don’t intend it to be a form of self-torture, it really kind of is, because I’m on my first serious diet in… well, ever. So I’m baking, but not eating. And I’ll pull a couple of loaves of bread out of the oven and think, “Okay, now I’m done for a while.” But then a few hours later I’ll find myself staring at a new recipe and thinking, “Well… I could just go ahead and whip this one up, too, and throw it in the freezer! For later! For when I don’t have time to bake!”

The thing is, I don’t have time to bake now. Because I’m working on something, and I should be working, not baking.

Here’s something I believe without reservation: There is no such thing as writer’s block. I don’t believe that it exists. I have never not been able to write; often what I write is complete crap, but I write it. I push through. Later I go back and weed through the crap and make it into something better. But it’s not like I can’t write. On the other hand… after I reach a certain number of words that make me want to stab myself in the eyes repeatedly, I know it’s time to start baking.
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My husband is bugging me for a vacation.

More specifically: He wants to take a couple of days to go away when the kids are off visiting their dad, and this is a perfectly reasonable request. Some might even say it sounds fun. (It does. Sound fun, I mean.)

But at the same time, I cannot get over feeling like I can’t possibly go away! There’s too much work to do! It costs too much! The sky is falling!

Okay, possibly that last one was a small exaggeration. I am just going to sit under this umbrella, to be sure, but still. (Do you feel sorry for my husband, yet?)
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