Failing as a Pen-for-Hire

Grub Street: The 19th Century's Haven for "Hack Writers"

So, I did something stupid. 

Months ago, just as the COVID-19 pandemic was just kicking into high gear, I did something I had been warned by all my mentors and heroes never to do: I tried to write for money. That sounds strange, I know, but allow me to elucidate further.

(Before I do, let me say one thing. I will be keeping my remarks incredibly vague. To go into detail would be, in my opinion, uncouth, so I will only tell as much as I feel will give you a sense of the situation and nothing more.)

Just prior the U.S. started trying to curtail the spread of COVID-19 (something we've royally failed at, I should point out, but that's besides the point right now), there was an air of uncertainty as to whether or not everyone--including me--was going to have to stop working. The last two years, I've made a little bit of money from my writing, but certainly not enough to support myself. And coronavirus or no coronavirus, I like many had bills to pay. So with the prospect of losing my main source of income, I decided to try for a job doing the one thing I knew I could do remotely, should the need arise: write.

I applied to write for a well-known website the name of which many people in the nerd and geek culture community will know. That said, I'm not going to name them (they get enough internet traffic already. they don't need my help). Knowing how perversely curious people are though when answers aren't readily provided for them though, I will tell you exactly how to find out who it is. All you have to do is google my name.

It will probably be the second or third listed reference. You'll likely recognize the name of the site if you're deep into pop culture. Loads of people in the Twitter #WritingCommunity write for, reference, and share articles from this site. However, you'll also notice if you click on the link that I've only done one article for them. And in all honesty, I'm not proud of it either. It's definitely what they wanted, in the end, and in some places, it's even funny, but it's not something--if this were still an age of true print media--that I'd ever hope to see in print again after it's initial appearance. But this is the internet age, and I'm sure it will remain in their archives for as long as their servers survive.

The reason I did the job simply was for the money. Nothing sends anxiety coursing through my body like a persistent electric shock like "money worries." With the possibility of lockdown looming, with my main source of income suspended, I figured I needed to find something I could do working remotely. I can write anywhere, even in my own home. And, at first, that's what I thought they were asking me to do. 

I quickly discovered I was wrong.

What they really wanted me to do was to be a content creator. And let me just say this now. Anyone, in any creative endeavor, who uses that phrase content creator around me with even a slightly tone of sincerity will be on the receiving end of a verbal tirade by me that will result in both the ripping of a new one and the re-ripping of your old one. 

I am not a content creator. I am a writer. I define myself by what I do, not the purpose it serves on some website.

It was this fundamental difference in attitude that made me realize that I couldn't keep working for this company. See, they wanted me to generate content for them, at a fairly high speed as well. At first, I though, perhaps I can learn how to do something new. Maybe I can just do this for the sake of survival. 

But my brain wouldn't let me.

Each time I tried to move forward with producing more stuff for them, I ran into a creative brick wall. I tried to turn on the tap, but nothing would come out; the very idea of doing this work for them turned off the main valve of my creativity. There were other factors too. The amount of material they expected me to generate per week; the added expectations of the coordinators; their persnickety attitudes--all of this added up to one of the worst bouts of, for lack of a better image, creative constipation I've ever experienced in my life. 

I knew I had to leave.

Weeks before I completed the one assignment I had (foolishly) agreed to complete, I drafted a letter of resignation. But I never go to use it.

The coordinator in charge of monitoring my progress finally contacted me and told me if I didn't complete the assignment promptly that the site would have to "reconsider our relationship." I'll admit, I did the immature, unprofessional thing. I told them what I actually thought of them, and got myself fired. 

I'm I proud of that? No. But I'm also not proud of the work I did for them either, so there we are. 

But going through this experience, firsthand, really did illuminate an old truism passed around the writing world for me. A real writer should never write "solely for the money," because whenever that happens, all integrity of the work is lost. As Ray Bradbury put it, "Money should be a reward for work well done," and even if you never get the money (to paraphrase Neil Gaiman's profound Make Good Art speech), one should always produce work of which one can nonetheless be proud. The work must always be it's own reward. 

Sometimes, no matter how often you hear something from someone--even people whose opinions and experience you value and admire--you have to have the experience yourself. Otherwise, the wisdom won't truly resonate. This was my experience, and I intend to learn from it and not repeat the same mistake ever again.