i woke up with the wisps of an imagined former office in my head. this is a regular thing: once every few months i dream up a version of the publishing world in which i return, usually as a freelancer, to my old magazine. the genial but distant boss who never followed up on raises for me was still there. my third editor in chief, the one who came in as a steely-eyed executive editor who bullied me into semi-factual cover lines and was pared away when corporate decisions maimed several of the women's-title mastheads this past fall—like polar bears that eat only seal blubber when food is plentiful—was still there. it's always at least a bit awkward; while i'm back in these scenarios, i'm always still formerly laid off. awakening, i'm never sorry that my job melted from beneath me, but my subconscious imagines rejection anyway. it loves to gnaw on old rejections.
i was never entirely sure if the way i handled my research department squared with the way other chiefs handled theirs, since i had exactly one senior editor walk me through my entry-level job and i spent my entire career rising through the same book. i saw other chiefs' guidelines, attended a few seminars with folks from other publishers, and sat through several of our in-house legal team's presentations on fact checking, but—especially as the team turned over and the women i'd known as a newbie dematerialized—i began to suspect that some, maybe many of the rules i'd inherited from my mentor were arbitrary. was it possible that we only needed to save physical files for three years' worth of issues because the sleek bank of file cabinets between editorial and the ad sales team...could fit physical files for three years' worth of issues? we used each manila folder twice; when i'd remove and discard the oldest files to make room for the ones i'd just created, i'd turn each one inside out, sharpie through the article title and date on the other side of the tab, and use it again. i still remember the pang i felt when my mentor's handwriting disappeared from the cabinet completely, when each folder was me and me, again.
i realized this morning that it's been more than three years since i packed up my cubicle and hit the pavement; even if some of the stories i'd assigned out for checking were bumped to future issues, there's a good chance that i've worked my way out of the cabinet as well. that i am a little sorry about, if we're being honest. my handwriting is probably as stylized as it is because i care more about being seen than i care, most of the time, to admit.
Showing posts with label ladymag. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ladymag. Show all posts
06.29.17
a friend sent me a link to a job posting that mirrored my skill set so neatly it was almost a bit scary: an outlet wants a researcher-reporter-writer with crazy pet experience and solid veterinary and PR contacts to pen deep dives about the best products for beasts. it would have involved developing a peripheral relationship with amazon, though (fuck amazon*), and it was a full-time, in-house staff position. it turns out...that i don't actually want one of those? i mean, i reserve the right to revisit these feelings if the new yorker reaches out about a film-reviews-by-plastic-animals position, but i've gritted my teeth through two and a half years of Post-Office-Job Ghosthood and suspecting that editors who didn't respond to pitches within minutes hated my face, and i think i want these calluses. i love my hospital and my bookstore. i've actually started writing my book. i'm going on a crazy three-day whale-watching trip later this summer for it! (that will probably yield a health piece or two as well. i get so, so seasick.) i enjoyed knowing that i would impress these folks who want a researcher-reporter-writer—possibly i sent them a note to that effect—but this frankencareer means something to me. i think we belong together, at least until it starts killing my family and friends and leaves taunting notes for me all the way to the north pole.
*and fuck whole foods, i guess? truth be told, it's easy enough and probably more responsible for me to shop seasonally at farmers' markets and essex street market—and we'll have essex crossing in a year or two—but i will miss the comparative ease of filling a santa's-sack of groceries at one store on the way home from my weekly shifts at ye old charity bookstore. ah well. (fuck amazon.)
*and fuck whole foods, i guess? truth be told, it's easy enough and probably more responsible for me to shop seasonally at farmers' markets and essex street market—and we'll have essex crossing in a year or two—but i will miss the comparative ease of filling a santa's-sack of groceries at one store on the way home from my weekly shifts at ye old charity bookstore. ah well. (fuck amazon.)
12.08.16
the dirty dozen {twelve indispensable things}
(nb: i have no financial interest in anything on this list, and none of these links are monetized. consider this comparing notes on consumption.)
01 nuun nutrient-enhanced drink tabs. my friend dave dissolved one of his nuun tablets in a glass of water for me the night before we ran the lake placid half marathon, and we definitely heard a bear when we were sitting out on the porch, so i'm pretty sure the vita-drinks saved us. nuun was free at the relay race we ran a week or two later in new jersey, and i consumed it like it was my job; while other teams saw bears, all of my legs were uneventful. nuun: is tasty and good for you, probably repels bears.*
02 lush lord of misrule shower cream. i buy a couple of big bottles of this stuff each halloween and hoard it for bubble baths all year long. turns water witch-green, smells like glamorous evil (anise and peppercorns, with a hint of vanilla and a soupçon of ironic patchouli).
03 baggu duck bag. i have carried one of these in leopard print every day** for the past six months. it fits everything (and has a little interior pocket for metrocards and plastic animals). speaking of,
04 schleich animal figurines. lee's (RIP), the wonderful art shop next door to my first magazine-lady office, kept me out of trouble when i was waiting for copy, supplied me with materials for eight jillion projects, produced our wedding invitations, and had a fantastic children's section full of marvelously detailed little german animals, which is why i've been carrying creatures around for the last decade and change. schleich has a horse club (and a horse advent calendar). they make six different elephant figurines. they are the shit.
05 burt's bees red dahlia tinted lip balm. i can apply it all day and not look like a maniac if i use way too much, and it works whether my hair is red, pink, or malfoy-blonde. smells good, too.
06 burt's bees pink grapefruit facial cleansing towelettes. you can bring them in carry-on luggage, and they're great for swiping bleach and dye away from your skin. not sure how this became about my hair, or about burt's bees (but on the latter, at least, they have solid sustainability goals, they source responsibly, and they don't test their products on animals; i appreciate all of that).
07 the new york times daily crossword app. my crossword subscription is not cheap; i suspect, in fact, that i pay more for it than we do for our digital subscription to the paper. that said, it keeps track of solve times far more accurately than our microwave did and plays a delightfully old-farty piano riff when one finishes a puzzle.
08 sturgill simpson, a sailor's guide to earth. our friends lesley and cody's son was born this summer; we made them a shepherd's pie, per their request, and i've been trying to figure out what else i want to bring over. i realized a few weeks ago that i need to bring them this record (framed as a sailor's letter home to his wife and son; simpson's own son was born two summers ago). joe and i have been sturgill simpson fans—pretty rabid, in joe's case—for a few years now, and after watching him blow the roof off of kings theatre in brooklyn this october, i'm getting there as well. if you don't know him yet, ease yourself in with his cover of when in rome's "the promise;" if you're prepared to take a flyer on some alt-alt-country, do.
09 minicyn sterling silver faceted stud earrings. these studs have spent more time in the field than any other fripperies i've owned, and given how long i had a barbell in my face and a ring in my navel, that's saying something. handmade, ethically-sourced, ultra-simple jewelry: i guess paris can get a thing or two right after all.
10 we are handsome sports bras. i acquired a t-back betta-print bra via a flash sale a few months ago and have ordered two more in the interim; they are so fierce, so no-nonsense, so unlikely to go to pieces in the laundry (looking at you and your weird pads, under armour). fitness gear can be stylish or functional or inexpensive, but it is so rarely all three; we are handsome (on sale), i salute you. (i'd happily pay full price for their stuff at this point, to be honest, particularly in the big-cat prints.)
11 s'well stainless steel bottles. the bottles' mouths are large enough to clean without drama and the finish, at least on my 'teakwood' version, is durable enough that i regularly ignore the no-dishwasher instructions (shh); the company supports UNICEF and american forests, and the 17-oz size is perfect for throwing in a backpack.
12 barkthins dark chocolate pretzel with sea salt snacking chocolate. "snacking chocolate" is a clunky term, but it actually makes sense in this case; i keep a single-serving pouch of this stuff at the bottom of most of my bags for when i forget to eat and discover that i want to, say, tear my fellow volunteers limb from limb. i consider fair trade, non-GMO chocolate superior to the candy bars i used to buy from the vending machine at my office (those "snickers really satisfies" commercials did a number on my subconscious back in the day, apparently).
*that said, i'd like to see bears.
**unless i'm wearing a leopard-print shirt; i'm not a monster.
(nb: i have no financial interest in anything on this list, and none of these links are monetized. consider this comparing notes on consumption.)
01 nuun nutrient-enhanced drink tabs. my friend dave dissolved one of his nuun tablets in a glass of water for me the night before we ran the lake placid half marathon, and we definitely heard a bear when we were sitting out on the porch, so i'm pretty sure the vita-drinks saved us. nuun was free at the relay race we ran a week or two later in new jersey, and i consumed it like it was my job; while other teams saw bears, all of my legs were uneventful. nuun: is tasty and good for you, probably repels bears.*
02 lush lord of misrule shower cream. i buy a couple of big bottles of this stuff each halloween and hoard it for bubble baths all year long. turns water witch-green, smells like glamorous evil (anise and peppercorns, with a hint of vanilla and a soupçon of ironic patchouli).
03 baggu duck bag. i have carried one of these in leopard print every day** for the past six months. it fits everything (and has a little interior pocket for metrocards and plastic animals). speaking of,
04 schleich animal figurines. lee's (RIP), the wonderful art shop next door to my first magazine-lady office, kept me out of trouble when i was waiting for copy, supplied me with materials for eight jillion projects, produced our wedding invitations, and had a fantastic children's section full of marvelously detailed little german animals, which is why i've been carrying creatures around for the last decade and change. schleich has a horse club (and a horse advent calendar). they make six different elephant figurines. they are the shit.
05 burt's bees red dahlia tinted lip balm. i can apply it all day and not look like a maniac if i use way too much, and it works whether my hair is red, pink, or malfoy-blonde. smells good, too.
06 burt's bees pink grapefruit facial cleansing towelettes. you can bring them in carry-on luggage, and they're great for swiping bleach and dye away from your skin. not sure how this became about my hair, or about burt's bees (but on the latter, at least, they have solid sustainability goals, they source responsibly, and they don't test their products on animals; i appreciate all of that).
07 the new york times daily crossword app. my crossword subscription is not cheap; i suspect, in fact, that i pay more for it than we do for our digital subscription to the paper. that said, it keeps track of solve times far more accurately than our microwave did and plays a delightfully old-farty piano riff when one finishes a puzzle.
08 sturgill simpson, a sailor's guide to earth. our friends lesley and cody's son was born this summer; we made them a shepherd's pie, per their request, and i've been trying to figure out what else i want to bring over. i realized a few weeks ago that i need to bring them this record (framed as a sailor's letter home to his wife and son; simpson's own son was born two summers ago). joe and i have been sturgill simpson fans—pretty rabid, in joe's case—for a few years now, and after watching him blow the roof off of kings theatre in brooklyn this october, i'm getting there as well. if you don't know him yet, ease yourself in with his cover of when in rome's "the promise;" if you're prepared to take a flyer on some alt-alt-country, do.
09 minicyn sterling silver faceted stud earrings. these studs have spent more time in the field than any other fripperies i've owned, and given how long i had a barbell in my face and a ring in my navel, that's saying something. handmade, ethically-sourced, ultra-simple jewelry: i guess paris can get a thing or two right after all.
10 we are handsome sports bras. i acquired a t-back betta-print bra via a flash sale a few months ago and have ordered two more in the interim; they are so fierce, so no-nonsense, so unlikely to go to pieces in the laundry (looking at you and your weird pads, under armour). fitness gear can be stylish or functional or inexpensive, but it is so rarely all three; we are handsome (on sale), i salute you. (i'd happily pay full price for their stuff at this point, to be honest, particularly in the big-cat prints.)
11 s'well stainless steel bottles. the bottles' mouths are large enough to clean without drama and the finish, at least on my 'teakwood' version, is durable enough that i regularly ignore the no-dishwasher instructions (shh); the company supports UNICEF and american forests, and the 17-oz size is perfect for throwing in a backpack.
12 barkthins dark chocolate pretzel with sea salt snacking chocolate. "snacking chocolate" is a clunky term, but it actually makes sense in this case; i keep a single-serving pouch of this stuff at the bottom of most of my bags for when i forget to eat and discover that i want to, say, tear my fellow volunteers limb from limb. i consider fair trade, non-GMO chocolate superior to the candy bars i used to buy from the vending machine at my office (those "snickers really satisfies" commercials did a number on my subconscious back in the day, apparently).
*that said, i'd like to see bears.
**unless i'm wearing a leopard-print shirt; i'm not a monster.
12.01.16
december will be a month of odd feats, i think. i have a dozen assignments due by the 21st; i'm running my last 10K of the year on the 17th; i'm going to run at least a hundred miles by new year's eve. i'd like to read another dozen books or so, and to have a complete first draft of one of the essays for my book proposal. i'm hoping to see the floor of the closet at some point.
condé nast announced today that it will shutter self's print edition. self's fact checking team was, is known for its rigor; as a magazine research chief, i looked to their guidelines the first time my managing editor asked me to draw up instructions for contributing writers. good night, ladies.
a high school acquaintance and i snarked at each other on a mutual friend's facebook wall yesterday morning and afternoon. we were talking about trump's flag-burning tweet, in theory, but at some point he noted that he'll "no longer read or accept the NYT as a valid source until they admit they helped CLINTON cheat and terminate those who proofed stories with her campaign." o facts; o, sources. my december assignments are all for websites associated with television networks, and they are as apolitical as assignments can be; social media and ye olde book proposal get all of my spiky feelings about journalism and truth for the rest of the year.
condé nast announced today that it will shutter self's print edition. self's fact checking team was, is known for its rigor; as a magazine research chief, i looked to their guidelines the first time my managing editor asked me to draw up instructions for contributing writers. good night, ladies.
a high school acquaintance and i snarked at each other on a mutual friend's facebook wall yesterday morning and afternoon. we were talking about trump's flag-burning tweet, in theory, but at some point he noted that he'll "no longer read or accept the NYT as a valid source until they admit they helped CLINTON cheat and terminate those who proofed stories with her campaign." o facts; o, sources. my december assignments are all for websites associated with television networks, and they are as apolitical as assignments can be; social media and ye olde book proposal get all of my spiky feelings about journalism and truth for the rest of the year.
03.15.16
the dirty dozen {packed for a week in the dominican republic}
01 the queen of the night (alexander chee)
02 wolf hall (hilary mantel)
03 death of a red heroine (qiu xiaolong)
04 hand-eye supply safety glasses
05 a ratty old iron maiden fear of the dark tour tee
06 a pineapple corer
07 two running tanks
08 a tagless black bathing suit i found at a fashion giveaway at the office four years ago
09 stink
10 a charley harper puzzle
11 purple shampoo
12 pimentón
01 the queen of the night (alexander chee)
02 wolf hall (hilary mantel)
03 death of a red heroine (qiu xiaolong)
04 hand-eye supply safety glasses
05 a ratty old iron maiden fear of the dark tour tee
06 a pineapple corer
07 two running tanks
08 a tagless black bathing suit i found at a fashion giveaway at the office four years ago
09 stink
10 a charley harper puzzle
11 purple shampoo
12 pimentón
07.02.15
ROAD TRIP UPDATE: VI {08:45, tucson}
we staggered to the front desk at our tucson hotel something like forty minutes before they let our room go for the evening (we took our sweet time getting out of orange county, and i took my sweet time getting through the mountains between san diego and yuma when a sudden thunderstorm flashed me back to hydroplaning and totaling a car in the rain when i was 18). "i really like your shirt," said the fellow who checked us in. if you would know true and constant love, internets, adopt a shelter animal and/or find yourself an old siouxsie and the banshees tee on ebay and wear it around when you travel.
i have been up since six or so this morning, when i began to stir and worry about the article i had to send to new york by eight. i wrote most of said article in the passenger seat as the interstate unspooled behind us last night, which is either the loveliest or the most terrible thing that's happened to me since i declared myself a freelance writer last fall. a framed poster on the plaster wall behind this desk promotes DILLINGER DAYS, an annual celebration of the anniversary of john dillinger's capture by the tucson police department in 1934. i have outlived john dillinger by five years so far. there are four pairs of earplugs tucked behind the shampoo and lotion in the bathroom.
we staggered to the front desk at our tucson hotel something like forty minutes before they let our room go for the evening (we took our sweet time getting out of orange county, and i took my sweet time getting through the mountains between san diego and yuma when a sudden thunderstorm flashed me back to hydroplaning and totaling a car in the rain when i was 18). "i really like your shirt," said the fellow who checked us in. if you would know true and constant love, internets, adopt a shelter animal and/or find yourself an old siouxsie and the banshees tee on ebay and wear it around when you travel.
i have been up since six or so this morning, when i began to stir and worry about the article i had to send to new york by eight. i wrote most of said article in the passenger seat as the interstate unspooled behind us last night, which is either the loveliest or the most terrible thing that's happened to me since i declared myself a freelance writer last fall. a framed poster on the plaster wall behind this desk promotes DILLINGER DAYS, an annual celebration of the anniversary of john dillinger's capture by the tucson police department in 1934. i have outlived john dillinger by five years so far. there are four pairs of earplugs tucked behind the shampoo and lotion in the bathroom.
06.26.15
ROAD TRIP UPDATE: V {11:45, los angeles}
in the six and a half hours it took us to get from our bungalow in phoenix to my sister and brother-in-law's new apartment in industrial los angeles, the temperature on our little car's instrument panel dropped from 45 to 19 degrees celsius; god bless california. i woke up this morning when taco (their 25-year-old box turtle) began his early-morning summertime dance in the terrarium next to our inflatable mattress. we're excited about marriage equality too, taco.
in case it takes laramie a while to get there with her monthly newsletter (sign up for her monthly newsletter), note that el atacor #11's potato tacos live up to the hype and are perhaps the best possible way to celebrate making it over chiriaco summit without breaking down on the side of the interstate (we got that out of the way in my in-laws' truck in scottsdale on thursday afternoon, when we limped to the nearest exit ramp and shopping center, where i ran into the ladymag's former fashion editor as we partook of the air conditioning at a sports authority).
i rode with my father-in-law when he took the truck back to the bungalow. "when i got this as a repo it had just my front seat, here; down in mexico these guys had gutted it and were filling it full of drugs and off-roading it across the desert."
in the six and a half hours it took us to get from our bungalow in phoenix to my sister and brother-in-law's new apartment in industrial los angeles, the temperature on our little car's instrument panel dropped from 45 to 19 degrees celsius; god bless california. i woke up this morning when taco (their 25-year-old box turtle) began his early-morning summertime dance in the terrarium next to our inflatable mattress. we're excited about marriage equality too, taco.
in case it takes laramie a while to get there with her monthly newsletter (sign up for her monthly newsletter), note that el atacor #11's potato tacos live up to the hype and are perhaps the best possible way to celebrate making it over chiriaco summit without breaking down on the side of the interstate (we got that out of the way in my in-laws' truck in scottsdale on thursday afternoon, when we limped to the nearest exit ramp and shopping center, where i ran into the ladymag's former fashion editor as we partook of the air conditioning at a sports authority).
i rode with my father-in-law when he took the truck back to the bungalow. "when i got this as a repo it had just my front seat, here; down in mexico these guys had gutted it and were filling it full of drugs and off-roading it across the desert."
04.02.15
in half an hour or so, i'll head across town to pick up my fourth tribeca crew tee. it's nearly film festival time, internets! i fantasized about taking shifts every day for two weeks and retiring with my earnings, but i can only work 32 hours over the course of the whole extravaganza for what i presume are weird-local-income-tax-related reasons. guess i'll have to continue to spend most of my time pitching and writing and running to avoid pitching and writing.
on pitching and writing, i've been wooing new outlets with something like success; i'm in no danger of being able to retire with these earnings, either, but i enjoy visiting slick magazine websites and growling MORE! as evidence of strangers' approval accumulates. it's a little like faux-casually breezing past a dish you've prepared and deposited at a potluck to see if it's being eaten. you take that casserole and you come back for seconds, mister. (i recently made a pretty great casserole, by the way. the broccoli should have gone in raw and it could have used a little cayenne, but i must say, recreating canned cream of mushroom soup at ten times the price is actually rather justified in that context.)
on pitching and writing, i've been wooing new outlets with something like success; i'm in no danger of being able to retire with these earnings, either, but i enjoy visiting slick magazine websites and growling MORE! as evidence of strangers' approval accumulates. it's a little like faux-casually breezing past a dish you've prepared and deposited at a potluck to see if it's being eaten. you take that casserole and you come back for seconds, mister. (i recently made a pretty great casserole, by the way. the broccoli should have gone in raw and it could have used a little cayenne, but i must say, recreating canned cream of mushroom soup at ten times the price is actually rather justified in that context.)
12.29.14
we played "bowl of nouns," as we do every year, when we had family over for post-christmas christmas on saturday night. my dad chose a slip of paper from the bowl, read the word on it, clutched his chest, and slumped to the floor. "dead, dead!" his team shouted, an adjective that doesn't even begin with P, the first letter for that round's words. it turned out that he'd read PROP upside down, which looked for all the world like DEAD in my handwriting, so we gave him the point (i wanted to give him bonus points, really). he and my stepfamily stayed for a second round before retiring to the upper east side, and the seven of us who remained arranged ourselves around the apartment: my sister, brother-in-law, and baby niece in the bedroom, my other sister and brother-in-law on an air mattress in the hall, me and the cat on a busted air mattress in the living room, joe and the other cat on the sofa. the idea of a hotel room to supplement our square footage had been suggested many times, but my sisters and i scorned the idea, as we get just a single night together each year. you guys can get a brotel room if you want. it feels like we spent half our childhood in sleeping bags on the family room floor, in front of the fireplace. why did the houses in our suburban-southern-california development have fireplaces? off-white stucco walls, curved terra cotta roof tiles that'd grind together like teeth when i climbed across them, fireplaces called into service as often as the national guard.
it's been a year of letting things in, of new and exotic arrangements, of trying to do what twelve-year-old me would've done in similar circumstances. the single, humble press trip i took in 2013 begat trips to hawaii, iceland, and turkey; my job wandered off from beneath me, and i became a freelancer; i took on weekly shifts at a wildlife rehab center and a charity bookstore cafe; i started training for a half marathon. my sister had a baby. joe's job mutated into something unrecognizable, and he found a new one.
a shard of anger will turn up in my foot when i hear news of my old magazine, though i left them with the widest smile that would adhere to my face. a decade of my life i gave them! a former freelancer of mine announced to me and the rest of her facebook friends that she'd accepted the new version of my job. Like, i clicked. my sister is designing a monogram for the pro writing site my dearest friend built me; my old mentor is publishing my first piece in the new year, an essay on calling my mother every day for a month. PROP or DEAD? hand me a pillow case and a couch cushion. let's do this.
it's been a year of letting things in, of new and exotic arrangements, of trying to do what twelve-year-old me would've done in similar circumstances. the single, humble press trip i took in 2013 begat trips to hawaii, iceland, and turkey; my job wandered off from beneath me, and i became a freelancer; i took on weekly shifts at a wildlife rehab center and a charity bookstore cafe; i started training for a half marathon. my sister had a baby. joe's job mutated into something unrecognizable, and he found a new one.
a shard of anger will turn up in my foot when i hear news of my old magazine, though i left them with the widest smile that would adhere to my face. a decade of my life i gave them! a former freelancer of mine announced to me and the rest of her facebook friends that she'd accepted the new version of my job. Like, i clicked. my sister is designing a monogram for the pro writing site my dearest friend built me; my old mentor is publishing my first piece in the new year, an essay on calling my mother every day for a month. PROP or DEAD? hand me a pillow case and a couch cushion. let's do this.
11.11.14
{graffiti in istanbul}
i finally purchased a pad for the beauteous turkish rug i sort of haggled for* in cappadocia and then stuffed into overhead compartments all the way back to new york city! of course, the suitcase i lugged beside said rug is still sitting next to our front door and serving (as most of turkey did) as a makeshift cat-home, but we're leaving for a week in madrid next friday, so it almost makes sense. that trip has nothing to do with my new career as an international woman of mystery, at least not directly; joe and i decided months ago that we wanted to get out of town for thanksgiving this year. the trip was to be even longer, actually, but as i've raked in about $500 in the last month and joe hasn't had much of a chance to accrue vacation time at his new job (we keep things exciting around here), we're sticking to spain. i refuse to haggle there, though.
on transactions, i've set some parameters for myself in my post-office life (run >5 km/day, volunteer >8 hrs/week, write >1 draft/day, NO PAJAMA PANTS, and so on). the drafts are a bit of a bitch—you know you need to fine-tune your process when you find yourself thinking fondly of the wide-open, tech-free hours you had to yourself at jury duty—but i've been told that these things take time. several colleagues have made the transitions associated with becoming a freelancer sound rather like the transitions associated with becoming a vampire, actually, which i take to mean that it's bewildering and painful at first and you have to crouch in the dark and catch rats for food, but eventually you realize that time was a threadbare human construct and enjoy unlimited power.
Not that I have the slightest desire to leave any lasting mark, of course. One barely casts a shadow even while the sun's out. But I shouldn't mind doing something that temporarily engages me. Actually, I should like to lose myself totally in a piece of work, but I can't imagine what it would be. And whatever it is I'm damned sure nobody would pay me to do it. In the meantime, then, is one to go on tossing fanciful recipes and fanciful arias into the face of despair? Is one to go on writing asinine books about asinine people with a few felicities thrown in to relieve the private torment? Answer: Yes. Keep bearing in mind that tunnel at the end of the light, Samper, the one that goes on for ever.
(james hamilton-paterson, from the exquisite cooking with fernet branca)
*surely i was the worst haggler in all of turkey; on several occasions i was perfectly content with a price, a shadow would pass over the face of the gentleman i was dealing with, and he'd duck into his shop and come back with some lower amount or a freebie to accompany my purchase. in ürgüp a guy actually dashed down the street to hand my friends and me pairs of free socks post-deal.
10.09.14
oh, timing. sometimes one has both a relatively significant life change to announce and a pre-jury-duty photo of the williamsburg bridge in the foreground of a dawn-drenched simmering hellscape to share; which of those things should one hold back to avoid cheesy new-beginning imagery? i'm no good at holding things back.
after a decade of highs, lows, hot husbands, and listicles, the ladymag and i have parted ways. it wasn't entirely a surprise; given what's happened across the industry over the last several years, everyone still in print knows that they're in for a wild ride. i've gone to work with my heart in my mouth since 2008, when my magazine faced its first big round of layoffs, and my first feeling when it happened to me—my department was consolidated with several others, and my editorial position was eliminated—was relief; when the worst thing finally arrives, you don't have to be afraid. you just become the next version of yourself, right?
i loved my ten years editing a women's magazine; i wasn't paid very well, but my colleagues were kind and the work was deliciously weird. the way my workload waxed and waned over the course of each month left me plenty of time to do my own writing, and every year or so i'd resolve to get back into it. i never did, exactly, but i would.
two days after my layoff i was in california with family. let's all raise a glass to dumb luck in vacation planning! my sister and brother-in-law are artists—he's been doing his thing for several years now, and she went full-time freelance a year ago—and we've had dozens of conversations over the years about stability and passion, the man versus the muse, all the fun holiday chats. she had champagne and sparklers waiting for us when we got to their place in los angeles, and she and i finally started using hard numbers as we talked about work. you sound more like you when you talk about writing, she said; you sound more like you, now.
my other first feeling was that i need to write for a living; i need to stop pretending that that isn't what i've wanted all along. it feels a lot like nausea, but it's motion sickness.
08.27.14
at JFK i overheard her telling another member of our group that she'd once gone to the ukrainian border to examine the potatoes grown for chopin vodka, but i'd have picked her out anyway: there's a certain kind of lightweight trench coat one only sees on traveling wine-and-spirits journalists. when we were on the jetway waiting to board our plane to reykjavik, her companion wondered if martin miller was still alive. "he died in december," i blurted, because i am only sometimes able to remember that real life is not like watching jeopardy! in your living room.
we coincided a few days later when i was working my way through the group with questions about ethics; it had shocked me to learn that, for example, the new york times asks its travel writers to sign statements saying that they haven't taken a press trip in the last five years (my magazine allows its writers to go on press trips and has given its blessing for each of mine). she'd just written a book about press trips, as it happened. her co-author used a pseudonym; "i, of course, will be the baroness," she said.
i didn't really get the baroness thing until we shared an armrest on our flight back to new york the next morning. i mentioned somewhere over greenland that joe and i would be celebrating our wedding anniversary that week, and she told me that her marriage had soured quickly. she'd lived in her husband's castle for four years,* she told me, and was miserable; after nine years, he wrote a single line—I DISINHERIT MY WIFE—and killed himself with a shotgun.
we exchanged contact info when we parted at customs. "i don't have my other cards with me," she said, "so i'll give you a baroness card." "i haven't got one of those yet," i said, and she laughed.
*09.16.14: four months, that is (i tracked down a copy of her memoir and just finished it).
08.07.14
i'd been working on a second post about my trip to hawaii, but i realized somewhere around the catholic church on my walk to the subway this morning that i need to write a poem about it? as the F train rumbled up i pulled out the little muji notebook in my giant mom-purse and discovered a rumpled piece of hotel stationery covered with notes from my second night on maui, maybe ten flights below where i took this photo. being forgetful is both a pain in the ass and occasionally quite exciting. i took a few more pages of notes.
07.31.14
i went on a press trip to hawaii last month. i told you about this, yes? i climbed into a plane in new york at dawn and hatched like a chick twelve hours later in honolulu, where a handful of writers and i were coddled and hustled all over the islands for a week. wellness-themed press trips are sort of a cross between the amazing race and america's next top model: at each new destination someone draped a lei around my neck and someone else put a drink in my hand, and each time i retired to my room i found a little gift and a note wishing me a pleasant night's sleep. one night there was a photo of me on my nightstand.
our last day on oahu began when we crawled out to greet the sunrise with a cleansing ritual on the beach, where the morning's first surfers already bobbed like flotsam out near the horizon. we considered water deities: hey, kanaloa! hey, namaka! there was unironic chanting. the woman leading the cleansing encouraged us to think about the constellations of choices that had resulted in our gathering on the sand, everything that we and our ancestors had done to generate that particular smattering. the implication was that the smattering was fortuitous—outside of honeymoon in vegas, it seems like most people consider themselves fortunate to end up in hawaii—but it was a gentle implication.
i'm estranged from a few of my relatives and dislike most of the rest. i know little about my grandparents' parents and almost nothing about anyone who came before them. at some point during world war one we pretended to be french, and some cousin of my grandmother's kept a pet lion in upstate new york. my grandfather's mother was known to light a cigarette before picking up the phone if someone called her in the middle of the night. as i walked into the waves on waikiki, i thought about how my aunt ran away from home and ended up at her sister's nunnery in san francisco, later the site of my sister's wedding. i thought about how a tiger decided not to eat my great-grandparents on the road to nham khan. i floated on my back in the amniotic water and considered my grandfather, too old and sick to go back to england, and the coins he gave me to buy myself a pint from him when i married joe in oxford. various writers' toes brushed against me as we pinwheeled in the water. "thanks, grandpa," i whispered.
05.03.14
UNEXPECTED INTEL AND ITS SOURCES
jon snow's eventual fate in a song of ice and fire / googling jon snow of channel 4 news
my office might have a comparatively reasonable severance policy* / lindsey palmer's pretty in ink
of mice and men's ultra-grisly denouement / hilton als's scathing review of the james franco production
*no worries, i remain employed.
jon snow's eventual fate in a song of ice and fire / googling jon snow of channel 4 news
my office might have a comparatively reasonable severance policy* / lindsey palmer's pretty in ink
of mice and men's ultra-grisly denouement / hilton als's scathing review of the james franco production
*no worries, i remain employed.
01.09.14
ask kidchamp, round V {vegan feet, fire-eating, and men in dresses; previous installment here}
are there vegan shoes (dress shoes in particular) that don't feel like your feet are steaming in their own personal sauna?
A: if you ever become interested in womenswear (see below), i strongly recommend stella mccartney; she's been turning out some of the most user-friendly (in terms of both comfort and one's ability to roll into a high-stakes fashion situation) vegan accessories in town for years, and they turn up on ebay in good shape at reasonable prices. in the interim, keep your eyes peeled for olsenhaus, a brand that patrols the non-PVC (PVC is environmentally brutal and uncompromising re: perspiration, as you probably know) shadowlands between ultra-haute vegan stuff and, like, hemp slip-ons. for men, i like the time travelers, which are a handsome coated cotton. for myself, i have and love a pair of sandals from a few seasons ago, and i'm eyeing the babylon ballet flats, which are made of microfiber derived from recycled television screens and have soles made of recycled rubber and sawdust. (olsenhaus shoes are often steeply discounted online.) give the novacas men's collection a look, as well; the vegan internets have long spoken highly of their boots in re: foot angst.
what was a time you responded inappropriately to a serious question?
A: at some point late in the magical year i worked in public relations, my coworkers and i gathered around a conference-room table to eat chopped salads and exchange seasonal pleasantries and mildly-revealing personal information. someone asked everyone else to describe what they would be doing with their lives if they hadn't gone into PR, and i said that i quite liked the idea of being a pyrotechnician. we all studied our salads.
have you ever thrown your cats a party? top five ever mag freebies? most and least pricey fashiony purchases of all time?
A: i have never thrown my cats a party, though i have probably thrown a party with the secondary or tertiary goal of debuting a cat. a coworker of mine recently lost a dog and threw a party for her surviving dog because she didn't want him to feel alone, which broke my heart and doubled my respect for her.
my top five ever magazine-editor freebies are a complicated vacuum, a mysterious black wool sample dress that was never produced for the market, a massive iittala aalto vase, a bottle of decennial's bois bourbon eau de toilette, and a bottle of 18-year-old highland park (honorable mention goes to 5,321 scented candles, 763 blankets, and a bunch of workout gear that makes me look like an eastern european ice dancer).
my least pricey fashiony purchase of all time is probably a pair of gold spike earrings i found online for $3 a few years ago; my priciest, in turn, is the navy blue wool chloé coat i bought at a consignment store two weeks ago. it makes me feel like a tolstoy heroine and cost far less than it might have, but i still needed lisa to sherpa me through the decision via text. (lisa, i salute you.)
or are these to be general? ie, how do i make coffee that isn't terrible?, what is the training for fire-eating?, etc
A: i like all questions. as a former surly coffee pro (i miss you sometimes, facial piercing), i am of the belief that if one is unable or unwilling to purchase a straight-up coffeehouse-caliber espresso machine—the elephantine, horrifically expensive kind that would kill you if it fell on you—one should skip amateur espresso drinks and focus on a kick-ass cup of pressed coffee. per the folks at roasting plant, our local devastatingly-high-quality coffee place, a french press maximizes the contact between your beans and your hot water. simple, no? they are also not a pain in the ass to clean, which makes them far more attractive to me than more intricate coffee gadgets. if you insist on making complicated stuff like mochas, mix your chocolate and your milk together before you steam them, as my first coffee-boss taught me.
the training for fire-eating is amateur fire-eating, of course. you'll need sambuca (romana is fairly easy to find), a champagne flute, and a book of matches. pour a shot of sambuca into the flute, swirl it around to kick up some fumes, and light the surface with a match; douse the flame immediately by putting your hand flat across the top of the flute (the vacuum you create will make the flute stick). have an assistant stand by with a book of matches, pour the sambuca into your mouth, tilt your head back, and have said assistant light it with a match; let the resultant flame frighten your friends and neighbors for a second, then close your mouth to put it out, wait a second to be sure, and swallow. (you can do the lighting yourself, but i wouldn't recommend that unless you're especially experienced, especially foolhardy, or both.) my point is that eating fire is extinguishing fire, really (the first rule of fire-eating is, predictably, never, ever breathe in, which is why the flaming sambuca is good practice; the second is don't eat fire when it's windy). the main two extinguishes are closing your mouth around the fire to deprive it of oxygen and blowing quickly outward with a puff (preferable if your torch is too hot to touch with your mouth). the third is that you should be very careful when making a torch, of course; DIY at your own risk (torch components can be found among fire equipment from a juggling store; personally i am quite taken with the wicked fire fans, which are, alas, inedible). the internet will try to tell you that fire-eating necessitates a tiny top hat, but that's between you and your supervising deity of choice, i think.
Late Entry: Contra past comments, has any sex-related art ever... ahem... seduced you into a notable state of appreciation?
A: i'm both a little unclear on what you're asking and fairly sure the answer would be no regardless? that said, i still remember where i was when i saw brad pitt's all-minidress rolling stone feature circa fight club, and sweet christ. for legends-of-the-fall-brad-pitt fans it was dylan going electric; for me it was, well, dylan going electric.
imaginary reading group discussion questions
01 after unsuccessfully haggling with the (kind of mean) consignment store folks for my coat, i took it home and discovered a pair of fur-trimmed gloves that had been wrapped with it by mistake. what should i have done with them?
02 do you think my coworker's dog felt better?
03 where and when did you have the best cup of coffee of your life?
04 have you ever eaten fire? would you?
05 what do you think of brad pitt in a dress?
are there vegan shoes (dress shoes in particular) that don't feel like your feet are steaming in their own personal sauna?
A: if you ever become interested in womenswear (see below), i strongly recommend stella mccartney; she's been turning out some of the most user-friendly (in terms of both comfort and one's ability to roll into a high-stakes fashion situation) vegan accessories in town for years, and they turn up on ebay in good shape at reasonable prices. in the interim, keep your eyes peeled for olsenhaus, a brand that patrols the non-PVC (PVC is environmentally brutal and uncompromising re: perspiration, as you probably know) shadowlands between ultra-haute vegan stuff and, like, hemp slip-ons. for men, i like the time travelers, which are a handsome coated cotton. for myself, i have and love a pair of sandals from a few seasons ago, and i'm eyeing the babylon ballet flats, which are made of microfiber derived from recycled television screens and have soles made of recycled rubber and sawdust. (olsenhaus shoes are often steeply discounted online.) give the novacas men's collection a look, as well; the vegan internets have long spoken highly of their boots in re: foot angst.
what was a time you responded inappropriately to a serious question?
A: at some point late in the magical year i worked in public relations, my coworkers and i gathered around a conference-room table to eat chopped salads and exchange seasonal pleasantries and mildly-revealing personal information. someone asked everyone else to describe what they would be doing with their lives if they hadn't gone into PR, and i said that i quite liked the idea of being a pyrotechnician. we all studied our salads.
have you ever thrown your cats a party? top five ever mag freebies? most and least pricey fashiony purchases of all time?
A: i have never thrown my cats a party, though i have probably thrown a party with the secondary or tertiary goal of debuting a cat. a coworker of mine recently lost a dog and threw a party for her surviving dog because she didn't want him to feel alone, which broke my heart and doubled my respect for her.
my top five ever magazine-editor freebies are a complicated vacuum, a mysterious black wool sample dress that was never produced for the market, a massive iittala aalto vase, a bottle of decennial's bois bourbon eau de toilette, and a bottle of 18-year-old highland park (honorable mention goes to 5,321 scented candles, 763 blankets, and a bunch of workout gear that makes me look like an eastern european ice dancer).
my least pricey fashiony purchase of all time is probably a pair of gold spike earrings i found online for $3 a few years ago; my priciest, in turn, is the navy blue wool chloé coat i bought at a consignment store two weeks ago. it makes me feel like a tolstoy heroine and cost far less than it might have, but i still needed lisa to sherpa me through the decision via text. (lisa, i salute you.)
or are these to be general? ie, how do i make coffee that isn't terrible?, what is the training for fire-eating?, etc
A: i like all questions. as a former surly coffee pro (i miss you sometimes, facial piercing), i am of the belief that if one is unable or unwilling to purchase a straight-up coffeehouse-caliber espresso machine—the elephantine, horrifically expensive kind that would kill you if it fell on you—one should skip amateur espresso drinks and focus on a kick-ass cup of pressed coffee. per the folks at roasting plant, our local devastatingly-high-quality coffee place, a french press maximizes the contact between your beans and your hot water. simple, no? they are also not a pain in the ass to clean, which makes them far more attractive to me than more intricate coffee gadgets. if you insist on making complicated stuff like mochas, mix your chocolate and your milk together before you steam them, as my first coffee-boss taught me.
the training for fire-eating is amateur fire-eating, of course. you'll need sambuca (romana is fairly easy to find), a champagne flute, and a book of matches. pour a shot of sambuca into the flute, swirl it around to kick up some fumes, and light the surface with a match; douse the flame immediately by putting your hand flat across the top of the flute (the vacuum you create will make the flute stick). have an assistant stand by with a book of matches, pour the sambuca into your mouth, tilt your head back, and have said assistant light it with a match; let the resultant flame frighten your friends and neighbors for a second, then close your mouth to put it out, wait a second to be sure, and swallow. (you can do the lighting yourself, but i wouldn't recommend that unless you're especially experienced, especially foolhardy, or both.) my point is that eating fire is extinguishing fire, really (the first rule of fire-eating is, predictably, never, ever breathe in, which is why the flaming sambuca is good practice; the second is don't eat fire when it's windy). the main two extinguishes are closing your mouth around the fire to deprive it of oxygen and blowing quickly outward with a puff (preferable if your torch is too hot to touch with your mouth). the third is that you should be very careful when making a torch, of course; DIY at your own risk (torch components can be found among fire equipment from a juggling store; personally i am quite taken with the wicked fire fans, which are, alas, inedible). the internet will try to tell you that fire-eating necessitates a tiny top hat, but that's between you and your supervising deity of choice, i think.
Late Entry: Contra past comments, has any sex-related art ever... ahem... seduced you into a notable state of appreciation?
A: i'm both a little unclear on what you're asking and fairly sure the answer would be no regardless? that said, i still remember where i was when i saw brad pitt's all-minidress rolling stone feature circa fight club, and sweet christ. for legends-of-the-fall-brad-pitt fans it was dylan going electric; for me it was, well, dylan going electric.
imaginary reading group discussion questions
01 after unsuccessfully haggling with the (kind of mean) consignment store folks for my coat, i took it home and discovered a pair of fur-trimmed gloves that had been wrapped with it by mistake. what should i have done with them?
02 do you think my coworker's dog felt better?
03 where and when did you have the best cup of coffee of your life?
04 have you ever eaten fire? would you?
05 what do you think of brad pitt in a dress?
10.29.13
as i'm about to argue that an open-notebook approach to compensation for creative work is both honorable and optimal, disclosure is important. note, then, that i have written poems for several small literary journals and received contributor's copies but no payment; i've been a salaried editor at and writer for a print magazine for the past decade; mcsweeney's paid me $25 for contributing to a book; miranda july sent me a contributor's copy of learning to love you more, though my work was referenced in an essay rather than reproduced; my flickr photos were available under a creative commons license until about a year ago, and were used by national geographic, the wall street journal, the food network, a few print authors, and many websites; i once consented to receive a review copy of a chuck klosterman book that i subsequently panned; i once drank a bunch of brennivin and posted bruce springsteen cover art on this site; i do not ask for permission from or compensate anyone for the photographs i post on birthday cakes for animals; i have never received payment for my writing on this site (which has never featured ads) or for guest posts on a few friends' sites (one of which features ads); i paid my little sister $300 (as i recall) to illustrate our save-the-date cards and wedding invitations; i paid michel gondry $20 to draw my portrait.
a colleague and friend of mine, easily the most prolific writer i know (she's got something like ten novels and probably hundreds of essays and articles for everyone from the new york times to women's magazines to sites like salon.com and nerve.com under her belt), wrote a long facebook post last week about a site she'd just pitched with an essay. her contact declined to buy her piece, but said that she was more than welcome to post it on their site for free. what magnanimity! i won't quote directly from the post (it still isn't public), but in short, my friend made a strong case for writers needing to protect themselves from "exposure" gigs, noting that actors with union cards aren't allowed to work outside of contracts (to do so would be damaging both to them and their peers). groups like actors' equity, AFTRA, and SAG don't really have analogs in the publishing world, but maybe they should; as tim kreider noted in the sunday times this weekend, it's a hot mess out there right now.
the majority of my experience giving it away is with photography, and honestly, i'm ashamed of it; i think that because i'm an amateur, to put it mildly, it didn't occur to me that making my photos accessible via creative commons could affect anyone's livelihood. it felt good to collaborate with, say, self-publishing authors who really couldn't afford professional images, and the random bigger hits were entertaining. hey, my selfie is on gizmodo! i started getting messages from professional photo assistants who wanted to use my stuff, uncredited, for free (for the titillation i would get, i suppose, from seeing them distributed to a wider audience?). i noticed traffic to my flickr stream from public-domain search engines, and it occurred to me, after way too long, that my hits were replacing paid work. whether or not someone can afford to pay a photo contributor is beside the point these days; why should they, when there are millions of folks like me out there? my default licensing setting is now creative commons/attribution/non-commercial. that feels right to me, but i still don't really know what i'm doing.
the titillation of exposure for non-professionals as currency has been examined to death in discussions of, say, reality television, but i'm starting to think about how it affects the food chain in other ecosystems. my friend's post-your-essay-for-free! offer is what kreider calls "death by exposure" for professionals, and in a media climate where everyone with a keyboard is a potential content provider and traditional outlets are dying off like giant pandas who can't figure out how to mate in captivity, the less-experienced writers who think they're building portfolios by working for nothing or next to nothing are going to find that there's no one left to look at them. long ago when the earth was flat and lots of newspapers still existed, i wrote a column for my college daily that was syndicated across the country. it was less impressive to the intern coordinators at big publishers here in new york than the fact that i'd been promoted at the on-campus coffeehouse (that, at least, showed i had management experience), but as far as i know, my friend's mother remembers me as "that girl who wrote about having sex with you." at some point in the near future, the kind of titillation keyboard-havers get from seeing themselves onscreen could be exposure's main value—or its sole value.
is it fair to resent amateurs and aspiring pros for what's going on in the media world? does resenting them do any good? some of my friends believe the market will sort itself out, but i...think about how that worked out with regulations and big banking over the last several years, and i have my doubts. also, have you ever watched writers try to split a restaurant tab? what we as "content providers" and lovers of thoughtful communication can do, and what we must do, is take responsibility for what we're doing, and how it affects our industries, peers, and contributors. i mean that literally: why don't we talk about things like how much we are or aren't getting paid for our work, and how much we pay each other? "Maybe [people who ask you to write for free are] asking in the collaborative, D.I.Y. spirit that allegedly characterizes the artistic community," kreider writes in sunday's times piece. "I have read Lewis Hyde’s The Gift, and participated in a gift economy for 20 years, swapping zines and minicomics with friends and colleagues, contributing to little literary magazines, doing illustrations for bands and events and causes, posting a decade’s worth of cartoons and essays on my Web site free of charge. Not getting paid for things in your 20s is glumly expected, even sort of cool; not getting paid in your 40s, when your back is starting to hurt and you are still sleeping on a futon, considerably less so." gift economies work, or "work," in closed systems like burning man, where collaborative community is institutionalized. in practice, proprietors of profitable businesses depend upon (and in some cases prey upon) contributors who decline to commodify their work.
friends and colleagues, please make your contributor-compensation policies easy to find and easy to understand. take responsibility for how your participation in this new, weird community affects the rest of us. make sure you're not the guy who doesn't kick in on the tab. we're supposed to look out for each other.
a colleague and friend of mine, easily the most prolific writer i know (she's got something like ten novels and probably hundreds of essays and articles for everyone from the new york times to women's magazines to sites like salon.com and nerve.com under her belt), wrote a long facebook post last week about a site she'd just pitched with an essay. her contact declined to buy her piece, but said that she was more than welcome to post it on their site for free. what magnanimity! i won't quote directly from the post (it still isn't public), but in short, my friend made a strong case for writers needing to protect themselves from "exposure" gigs, noting that actors with union cards aren't allowed to work outside of contracts (to do so would be damaging both to them and their peers). groups like actors' equity, AFTRA, and SAG don't really have analogs in the publishing world, but maybe they should; as tim kreider noted in the sunday times this weekend, it's a hot mess out there right now.
I know there’s no point in demanding that businesspeople pay artists for their work, any more than there is in politely asking stink bugs or rhinoviruses to quit it already. It’s their job to be rapacious and shameless. But they can get away with paying nothing only for the same reason so many sleazy guys keep trying to pick up women by insulting them: because it keeps working on someone. There is a bottomless supply of ambitious young artists in all media who believe the line about exposure, or who are simply so thrilled at the prospect of publication that they’re happy to do it free of charge.i haven't had to spend too much time thinking about the implications of writing for free. my literary-magazine credits are ancient history, and i am confident that turning my juvenilia over to those now-extinct journals did no serious harm to my community (i do squirm a bit over the strange poem about christina aguilera, but that's another story). this blog predates Big Web Money for personal writing, and my feelings about it haven't changed over the years; i hope it's been of use to other people, but i'm not ashamed to admit that i've written it mostly for my own benefit, and i'm comfortable with its potential financial impact on my peers as a not-for-profit public site featuring my recreational writing and photography. as for the writing i do as part of my full-time magazine job, it's work with formalized pay, bless it, and fairly uninteresting in the context of this discussion.
the majority of my experience giving it away is with photography, and honestly, i'm ashamed of it; i think that because i'm an amateur, to put it mildly, it didn't occur to me that making my photos accessible via creative commons could affect anyone's livelihood. it felt good to collaborate with, say, self-publishing authors who really couldn't afford professional images, and the random bigger hits were entertaining. hey, my selfie is on gizmodo! i started getting messages from professional photo assistants who wanted to use my stuff, uncredited, for free (for the titillation i would get, i suppose, from seeing them distributed to a wider audience?). i noticed traffic to my flickr stream from public-domain search engines, and it occurred to me, after way too long, that my hits were replacing paid work. whether or not someone can afford to pay a photo contributor is beside the point these days; why should they, when there are millions of folks like me out there? my default licensing setting is now creative commons/attribution/non-commercial. that feels right to me, but i still don't really know what i'm doing.
the titillation of exposure for non-professionals as currency has been examined to death in discussions of, say, reality television, but i'm starting to think about how it affects the food chain in other ecosystems. my friend's post-your-essay-for-free! offer is what kreider calls "death by exposure" for professionals, and in a media climate where everyone with a keyboard is a potential content provider and traditional outlets are dying off like giant pandas who can't figure out how to mate in captivity, the less-experienced writers who think they're building portfolios by working for nothing or next to nothing are going to find that there's no one left to look at them. long ago when the earth was flat and lots of newspapers still existed, i wrote a column for my college daily that was syndicated across the country. it was less impressive to the intern coordinators at big publishers here in new york than the fact that i'd been promoted at the on-campus coffeehouse (that, at least, showed i had management experience), but as far as i know, my friend's mother remembers me as "that girl who wrote about having sex with you." at some point in the near future, the kind of titillation keyboard-havers get from seeing themselves onscreen could be exposure's main value—or its sole value.
is it fair to resent amateurs and aspiring pros for what's going on in the media world? does resenting them do any good? some of my friends believe the market will sort itself out, but i...think about how that worked out with regulations and big banking over the last several years, and i have my doubts. also, have you ever watched writers try to split a restaurant tab? what we as "content providers" and lovers of thoughtful communication can do, and what we must do, is take responsibility for what we're doing, and how it affects our industries, peers, and contributors. i mean that literally: why don't we talk about things like how much we are or aren't getting paid for our work, and how much we pay each other? "Maybe [people who ask you to write for free are] asking in the collaborative, D.I.Y. spirit that allegedly characterizes the artistic community," kreider writes in sunday's times piece. "I have read Lewis Hyde’s The Gift, and participated in a gift economy for 20 years, swapping zines and minicomics with friends and colleagues, contributing to little literary magazines, doing illustrations for bands and events and causes, posting a decade’s worth of cartoons and essays on my Web site free of charge. Not getting paid for things in your 20s is glumly expected, even sort of cool; not getting paid in your 40s, when your back is starting to hurt and you are still sleeping on a futon, considerably less so." gift economies work, or "work," in closed systems like burning man, where collaborative community is institutionalized. in practice, proprietors of profitable businesses depend upon (and in some cases prey upon) contributors who decline to commodify their work.
friends and colleagues, please make your contributor-compensation policies easy to find and easy to understand. take responsibility for how your participation in this new, weird community affects the rest of us. make sure you're not the guy who doesn't kick in on the tab. we're supposed to look out for each other.
07.24.13
conversations at the corporate refrigerator {I}
1: are those little...gifts?
2: homemade pickles, actually.
1: is that how one usually wraps...?
2: i had all this painter's tape, i didn't want them leaking on the subway, and...here we are.
1: no one wants pickle juice on...
2: no one.
1: are those little...gifts?
2: homemade pickles, actually.
1: is that how one usually wraps...?
2: i had all this painter's tape, i didn't want them leaking on the subway, and...here we are.
1: no one wants pickle juice on...
2: no one.
08.17.12
it's the last of my summer fridays out of the office, and i've done my best to make the most of my freedom: thus far i've made dioramas with the cats, grumbled out four miles on the treadmill, spray painted a wristwatch, and eaten three quarters of a peach. (make that a whole peach.) in the tub just now it occurred to me that it's been a terribly long time since i've presented you with a frustrating game (a la mystery train); here's a new one, inspired by naurnie's talk of "all i want is you" and reality bites,* as well as douglas's bangles tweet.
below is a re-soundtracked film; i've replaced songs from the original playlist with songs which recall them (in lyrics, tone, or both). a few hints: the film does not feature julie andrews, nathan lane, or paul ryan, all of its music is original and performed by its characters, and the songs are listed in the order in which they're performed. (make that two peaches.)
mystery film I
girl, you'll be a woman soon - urge overkill
magic - the cars
tear off your own head (it's a doll revolution) - the bangles
nothing matters when we're dancing - the magnetic fields
with or without you - u2
under my thumb - the rolling stones
imaginary reading group discussion questions
01 pray, can you guess the mystery film?
02 is that peter dinklage at the beginning of the "all i want is you" video?
03 reality bites v. singles: which had the better soundtrack?
04 fellow working stiffs, does your workplace observe summer fridays?
*ethan hawke, don't call me.
below is a re-soundtracked film; i've replaced songs from the original playlist with songs which recall them (in lyrics, tone, or both). a few hints: the film does not feature julie andrews, nathan lane, or paul ryan, all of its music is original and performed by its characters, and the songs are listed in the order in which they're performed. (make that two peaches.)
mystery film I
girl, you'll be a woman soon - urge overkill
magic - the cars
tear off your own head (it's a doll revolution) - the bangles
nothing matters when we're dancing - the magnetic fields
with or without you - u2
under my thumb - the rolling stones
imaginary reading group discussion questions
01 pray, can you guess the mystery film?
02 is that peter dinklage at the beginning of the "all i want is you" video?
03 reality bites v. singles: which had the better soundtrack?
04 fellow working stiffs, does your workplace observe summer fridays?
*ethan hawke, don't call me.
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