Archives for category: Just me yakkin'

There was a lovely young couple living upstairs for the first few years I was here, and by lovely I mean when they walked by you could only stand there gaping in wonder at their sheer splendor (especially in combination). One Brazilian and the other Welsh, they had both undoubtedly been models at some point.

My neighbors were high-fashion photographers at the beginning of their careers, with a full studio set up in their apartment (probably illegally), and there were always gorgeous, exotic six-foot-tall stick girls knocking on our door. Vincent would answer and smile and point to the sky to indicate they were one floor short (no names or numbers on our apartment doors in typically efficient French fashion).

One day the Perfections and I were chatting on the sidewalk and they told me that fashion magazines, even the big ones, didn’t want to pay them for their work, claiming the exposure they’d get and the portfolio they were building should be adequate compensation. However, landlords don’t take payment in magazine spreads any more than they do in blog posts, so the Lovelies were forced to move out of this neighborhood, all the way to the outskirts of Paris. Shame.

Evidently graphic designers have the same problem. Designer Ben Crick created a manifesto for designers…

There exists an unfortunate cultural history of exploitation in Visual Communication, and indeed the arts in general. Designers, especially young designers, are expected to work for little or no money, either to prove themselves, gain exposure, or provide spec work.

…and a charming set of posters to illustrate its four main points:

Read the rest of the manifesto and see the other posters

In a discussion I had with a writer friend the other day on the topic of blogsploitation, I tried to pin down for her why some people (like me) have a problem with being asked to blog for free and maybe why others don’t, and why many websites don’t seem to think there’s anything wrong with not paying their bloggers.

I think part of the problem is the concept of “blogger.” The general consensus (among the kind of people who think Amazon and Facebook are the Internet) seems to be that bloggers are ordinary people — pilots, housewives, nurses, mechanics — who just decided to start writing about whatever popped into their heads. People tend to place blogging in the hobby rather than the profession category, and they write off bloggers and blogs as amateurish and not to be taken seriously. I think traditional media and big online media capitalize on this perception to keep bloggers in a journalistic underclass.

At a certain point, though, if a blogger has been writing enough, and well enough, to have some significant content on the Web to point to, whether or not he or she’s ever been paid for any of it, that blogger should be taken seriously as a writer or a journalist (depending on what he/she blogs about and how).

Blogging is essentially self-directed OJT for writing and/or journalism.

Another part of the problem is related to what a blogger’s profession is in the first place. While a nurse might be excited to blog for a large platform for free (at least at first), a writer might be more indignant about being expected to do so. In my case, I was getting paid to do tech writing, translation and many other kinds of writing for years before I started blogging, so it irks me to write for free unless it’s for a good cause, or to help a friend, or to share something I’m passionate about.

Ideally, if you end up writing for free for a website, there should be a time limit to it. Give ‘em a free sample of the milk, but not a lifetime supply, ya know? Companies should have the courtesy to define trial periods after which they agree to pay for the content you’re producing, vest you in the company, or offer some other arrangement.

For example, after you’ve written X posts per month for X months or years, you’ll be paid X per post (or maybe X to start, with increases down the line), or own X shares of the company.

If your writing’s no good, or you’re flaky, or not a good fit, the company should send you on your merry way before the trial period ends, which can only improve the quality of their site’s content. In fact, if it’s true that bloggers don’t draw that much traffic to HuffPo, maybe it’s because HuffPo doesn’t actively separate the wheat from the chaff. I stopped reading it about three years ago, when I saw a celebrity gossip blog post about Tom Cruise…

If you are good, and your content resonates with the site’s audience, it’s easy to quantify your value based on the number of comments you get (and “Likes” and tweets) as well as your stats. The site you write for is tracking stats, and should tell you your “popularity” ranking relative to other bloggers, or the ranking of your posts, and should share your stats with you (number of views, external links to your posts, etc.), so you can judge just how much “exposure” you’re actually getting for your efforts. If it’s clear your content is popular, the company using you should recognize and reward your contribution in some way.

It’s just a question of doing the right thing.

I may continue this discussion. Might talk about the open source philosophy (Vincent thinks I should), intellectual property, Flattr, faux celebrity, and the reality of the situation, which is that most of us do write for free, despite everything I’ve said. Or I might not. We’ll see.

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*Shit my pre-Sexual Revolution mom said.

Read the first post on this topic, Give me equity or give me a break.

Gay Pride parade, Paris, 2011.

The other day I see a tweet from this chick blog with a spunky name saying they’re looking for writers “to join [their] editorial team.” Sounded serious. I checked it out.

The blog looks professional (but there’s no guarantee it is, given the plethora of polished prefab blog themes out there). It wants to be edgy and aims to cover a wide variety of topics from high tech to high art to high fashion. So far, so good. The writing is fair in terms of style and personality. I get the impression that the owner has been seduced by the quantity-over-quality siren, which is not uncommon among group blogs (a response to the world’s shrinking attention span and voracious appetite for bread and circuses). In the end, I conclude that this blog is neither an unscented pantyliner of a blog, nor a communal blogorrhea receptacle, so I send a message indicating interest. A few days later, I get a response asking me to fill out an online application form and a “by the way, our writers are volunteers.”

I love to volunteer! It does wonders for the soul. Whenever my single friends are moaning and groaning about how they can’t meet anybody decent, I tell them to volunteer, that they’re sure to meet generous people who care about the same things they do. I was a volunteer “buddy” to PWAs for AIDS Services of Austin in 1990, shortly after I lost my best friend to AIDS. I did some graphic design and other work as a volunteer for an educational nonprofit in Paris when I first got here. I’ve done pro bono translation for Kiva to help get micro-loans to people in francophone Africa. And so on.

But somehow, dear blog owners who keep expecting to use my work for free, I am not inspired to volunteer to help you build a business! Do you see the difference between your blog and the examples above? And the fame and fortune blogs great and small dangle before people like me (“exposure” and maybe a few pennies of shared ad revenues here and there) just don’t cut the mustard.

The very least you can do is give me a piece of the pie.

What blog owners can learn from startups

I’ve spent the last few years immersed in and blogging about the Internet startup scene, and there is one thing everybody in that world knows: you may have an idea for a startup, but without a developer your idea is worth jack shit. And if you can’t pay your developer, you damn well better offer him equity.

So you have an idea for a group blog! Good for you. Who’s going to fill its pages? Writers. It’s the writers who are going to furnish the erudition and gravitas, or humor and hipness, or sexiness, or snarkiness, or whatever magic ingredients you need. And if you’re serious and have a clear vision for your blog, you’ll choose your writers carefully. (A startup founder doesn’t want just any hack building his/her platform.)

But if you let anyone who’ll work for free fill your blog with his blather, you’re screwing yourself right off the bat. You’ll get crap writing and a crap audience and crap advertisers (if any). Eventually, your dream of creating something special will die because your blog won’t be in the least bit exceptional because your content isn’t because your writers aren’t.

You don’t (usually*) get something for nothing.

I’m pretty sure Michael Arrington was the first person who decided to call his group blog, TechCrunch, a startup. He certainly got what you, dear blog owner, are likely hoping for when AOL recently bought TechCrunch for millions. But though he considered TechCrunch a startup, something tells me he wasn’t doling out chunks of it to his bloggers. Based on my experience, I venture most of them weren’t even getting paid.

So vest me, baby

I know what it’s like to try to launch an online company without a lot of cash. You can’t afford to hire anybody, even part time. So if you can’t pay me to write for your young group blog with a strong vision and lots of potential, then offer me a piece of it.

I know, I know, you aren’t even a real company yet because then you’d have taxes and fees and all manner of hassles to deal with. That’s OK. An agreement in writing will do.

If you offer me equity, I’ll look at what you’re all about to see if what you’re doing turns me on. I’ll check out the competition. I’ll scrutinize the other members of the team to see if they’re strong or weak links. And then I’ll decide if your blog is worth the investment of my time and effort. If I go for it, I’ll be excited and motivated, and it’ll show in my work. I’ll be dedicated and I’ll evangelize for you. You’ll be able to count on me to get you that post when I’m sick.

Good and evil

I’d like to thank GigaOm, a great big tech blog, and Galavanting, a tiny startup (when I first wrote for them) for having the decency to pay me for my work.

As for the rest: shame on you.

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*The Huffington Post doesn’t pay its bloggers and the content sucks (for the most part), but that didn’t stop it from recently surpassing the NYT in page views or being bought by AOL for over $300M. The latter prompted the legion of HuffPo bloggers to start raising Cain about getting nothing out of the deal, to which HuffPo essentially said “bloggers don’t do that much for our traffic anyway” and “let them go on strike, there are plenty of people who’d be happy to replace them.”

The HuffPo bloggers’ class action suit probably won’t get them anywhere, in part because there was no contract and in part because there’s no solidarity: half the bloggers are OK with working for free for a multi-million dollar company.

I’m not.

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The Newspaper Guild: Communications Workers of America.

Don’t ever get a weird disease if you’re anywhere even remotely near the age of menopause because nobody will believe there’s anything wrong with you. In the eyes of others, including, and maybe especially doctors, you’ll just be a hysterical hypochondriac who’s aging ungracefully. They’ll hint at hormones or suggest that you may just be depressed. You probably are, since by the time two years of this go by, you’ll be convinced you’re a hysterical pre-menopausal hypochondriac.

If it’s on House, it must be bad.

As it turns out, I do have a disease. It’s a rare disease, of course, because I’m special. Nobody knows what causes this disease, so don’t try to blame my vices. This disease doesn’t kill you (at least not often); it just makes you wish it would (some days), which is one of the reasons why, for purposes of this post, I’m calling it FLS  (feel like shit) disease. Also because the real name is so bloody ugly. Plus, so far, my French friends all seem to think I’m making a political joke when I tell them. Nobody I know had ever heard of it except my son (25) and my step-daughter (15) who heard it mentioned on House. They were duly impressed.

This does not mean that this is going to become one of those sick person blogs where I drone on about my bodily fluids and test results (you’ve come across those, right?). Another reason why I don’t name the disease here; I don’t want to draw that kind of attention, or be part of an online whining sick person club.

Just let me get it out of my system here and then I’ll leave you alone. I’m really writing this so you’ll understand why I can’t come out to play right now.

They’re dead. They’re all messed up.**

Thanks to FLS, I’m currently, and rather suddenly (as of Christmas), all messed up. Furthermore, I have no way of knowing if I’ll stay messed up for only a year or three or nine, after which the symptoms of most patients just go away spontaneously, although 50% of those who do get better have relapses.

In case you’re still not convinced: I went to California in February for a two-week stay, but left 5 days early because I wasn’t strong enough to do a full day of ordinary things like go out to restaurants, shop, hang out and visit with friends… If you know me, that should be a major nuff said. I’ve had to cut back on any personal or professional activities that take me out of the house by about 90% since Christmas, and the ones that I can do in the house by not much less. I’m afraid to stray too far from my neighborhood. I’m perpetually exhausted (at about 60% of my normal energy level) and in pain. (At least French doctors are free with the narcotic painkillers.)

This is not a drill.

But I’m getting some good blog fodder out of it: stay tuned for part 2, “Fun with French medicine.

_______________________

*HoleSofter, Softest

**Night of the Living Dead

I wrote my first poem, about a kitten, when I was nine. I still have that piece of very wide-ruled paper in the basement somewhere. It was a school assignment, and I lost points for spelling “cream” “creme.” I knew how to spell “cream,” but this was a conscious choice. I just thought “creme” was a fancy way to spell the word. (OREO did it, why couldn’t I? That’s what I said to the teacher.) I couldn’t have articulated it at that age, but I felt the exotic spelling added texture. I have always loved to play with language.

Two or three years later, I wrote my next poem. I was watching an episode of The Addams Family (a show that played no small part in my franco-erotic awakening and also influenced my fashion sense), in which Morticia was planning to write an opera called Afternoon in a Swamp.

I tried to imagine what such an opera would possibly be like and, when the show ended, I got up and wrote a poem called Afternoon in a Swamp. This is how it starts:

Isn’t it lovely to sit in the bubbly
mushy gushy swamp?
A thunder and lightning
most of all frightening
wonderful place for a romp.

It’s in the basement too. I travel light, but there are a few scraps of paper I’m still dragging around.

I kept writing poems, heavily in the teenage years, of course (my what crap), and on into my twenties and thirties (mostly sonnets for a man I ended up being with for 16 years). I came out of that relationship with a nice sonnet sequence spanning that significant chapter of my life. And the cherry on top of the sonnets, when it all came crashing down, was a villanelle I’m pretty proud of. Too much pain for 14 lines to hold, and the kind of challenge that keeps you so focused you forget to kill yourself that day.

For the last 10 or so of those 16 years, I drank a lot. We drank a lot. My daily buzz wrapped me in a sort of silence, was a buffer that kept me floating on the surface, which is not where poems come from. And so none came. But when I got divorced I took a dive, a deep, deep dive, and I haven’t come up. I like it down here. And I found a buddy.

All of this is to say that my priorities are changing. I’m planning a gradual and graceful exit from the rat race. I’m just too bored and disgusted watching the rats spinning frantically in their wheels to nowhere, and busting my ass for people who don’t appreciate it. I will be switching to the tortoise and hare race, in which I will be the tortoise, pausing to sit in the shade at the foot of a tree and ponder and write a thing or two before I continue along the path.

Life’s just too short.

In case you didn’t know it, I’m working on a novel. It’s about learning to dive (metaphorically speaking). And I’ll never finish it if my time and energy are squandered on pointless pursuits (though some may think writing a novel is just that). I also have a blog of prose poetry and photography. And then there are the Instagram photos. My miraculous husband makes things too: music as well as art.

My advice to you: take up diving.

I got a Christmas present this year. Just one, which is as it should be, since I’ve made it abundantly clear that I’m anti-stuff for stuff’s sake, and that’s what a lot of presents end up being.

The one person I exchange gifts with every year is a dear girlfriend. The one who knows absolutely everything. The one I invited over to sift through my great-grandmother’s jewelry with me when my great-uncle sent it. The one I regularly discuss the meaning of life with over coffee or tea or sometimes champagne and always chocolate or cookies. The only one my age with an only son around my only son’s age. The only one my age who gets the Internet thing and lives it like I do. The one who, though she’s been around the block enough times to have memorized the cracks and initials and paw prints in the sidewalk, can still recall exactly how it felt to play hopscotch with the sun on her back in that very spot. Like me.

My friend, who can glance at a woman’s feet and tell you what year her Chanels date from (after all, the block she’s been going around all these years happens to be in Paris), acutely feels my shoe pain, if not my foot pain. At that fancy conference for superwomen we both attended in October (the one I bought the dorky shoes for), we stole a moment to gawk at and discuss the supershoes (which she later documented).

I spent the last week of December and the first week of January horizontal; doctor’s orders, feet misbehaving. Her gift to me, which I didn’t get till I was up and around, was a diminutive stiletto-heeled sandal in honor of my feet’s glory days. She slipped a note into the box telling me never mind about the stilettos, I could always have this one to dance with me.

I told her “I totally would have worn this shoe to a 4th of July barbecue,” and she said “I know.”

(The Ms. Independence shoe is part of a collection of tiny shoes you can find at Just the Right Shoe.)

Christmas was a big deal when you were a kid and it’s a big deal when you have little kids but otherwise it’s no big deal. It remains to be seen whether I will have grandkids and whether having grandkids will restore Christmas big-dealness for a time. Will I be around for great-grandkids? Doubt it. But there’s my great-grandmother with her hand on my shoulder, looking over at my baby bro. Did we bring back some big-dealness to her Christmases or those of my grandmother next to her? Hope so.

I wish I had my grandmother’s awesome coat. A mid-century riff on provençal, and red. It’s so very me.

The best thing about Christmas is when you get an idea for a great gift. A gift you think will bring a little life to the life of someone you love. Actually, it’s the only thing about Christmas that makes it worth mentioning anymore. Maybe you wouldn’t think the five matching SPAM t-shirts from size itsy bitsy to XL I bought this year for the aforementioned baby bro and his family were anything special. But it wasn’t a totally random act. Little I do is totally random. It has to do with Hawaii, where we ran amok as teens. And, yes, I selfishly hope the subliminal suggestion will work: brother wears shirt, or sees it in his drawer or the laundry, or sees any member of his family wearing shirt, and thinks of me, or maybe even gets a sudden inexplicable urge to call or send an e-mail. I think of him all the time.

I got a gift today, from Chance. A treasure I’m glad to share. Take it if you need it. Now this is a great gift:

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight in you.

Charles Bukowski, The Laughing Heart