Journalism's Dirty Little Secret: Who's Paying for the Content?

Bravo Pete Wells and the New York Times for the outstandingly poor review of Guy Fieri's Times Square restaurant.

Seriously.

You can read the whole thing here. 

Or just opt for some highlights, um, lowlights that start like this:  "GUY FIERI, have you eaten at your new restaurant in Times Square?"

Followed by:  "Were you struck by how very far from awesome the Awesome Pretzel Chicken Tenders are? If you hadn’t come up with the recipe yourself, would you ever guess that the shiny tissue of breading that exudes grease onto the plate contains either pretzels or smoked almonds? Did you discern any buttermilk or brine in the white meat, or did you think it tasted like chewy air?"

And:  "How, for example, did Rhode Island’s supremely unhealthy and awesomely good fried calamari — dressed with garlic butter and pickled hot peppers — end up in your restaurant as a plate of pale, unsalted squid rings next to a dish of sweet mayonnaise with a distant rumor of spice?"

Nope. I don't have anything out for Guy, who actually married a Rhode Islander, and I highly doubt Mr. Wells does either. The reason I love this piece is not only for its brutal honesty, but the simple fact that it got printed. Period.

Seeing this in black and white means the newspaper found the message more important than potentially offending an advertiser, like say the entire Food Network. And that's a beautiful thing. Standard practice, right? Not so much. The nasty little secret within too much of the journalism world is: Cash trumps truth.

Those impartial reviews? Depending on the publication, not always impartial at all. Back in the day, I gave a poor review to a Providence restaurant for some things that a responsible owner should have had tabs on: a dusty interior and a freezer burnt dessert. Yum. I thought, and continue to think, that my job as a writer is to provide an objective view, including the good and the bad.

Not so much.

That was the beginning of the end of my review career at that publication. Why? Because there, as in too many establishments, it's not the editorial department that's in charge of content. It's the advertisers. And if they don't like what you've written about them, they'll retaliate by pulling their ad dollars, causing the publisher to take a walk into the newsroom and have a little chat with the editor about getting their writers in check.

And trust, this is something that I didn't learn about in journalism classes.

The truth is Guy Fieri and his New York restaurant will continue to do just fine, bad review or not. I've made the mistake of eating in the heart of Times Square, where success seems to be marked by churning out a high volume of non-offensive food as quickly as possible so the tourists can get back to their day. Seems like Guy's not only got that covered, but I'd hazard a guess he's known exactly what he's doing all along.

It's just that someone, who clearly appreciates the art of food, decided to call him on it. And for that Pete Wells and The New York Times, I give you a standing O.

What ARE you, RICH?

For some bizarro reason, people often times think I'm rolling in the dough.

(I'm not. See last week's post.)

I suppose I should take it as a compliment. Because truthfully, it just really annoys me on too many levels to count. The short answer is what I lack in cash, I make up with my outstanding bargain hunting abilities, also known as the exact same research skills I've honed as a writer. I use them to buy quality things that, apparently, are making me appear rich.

Case in point: This lambskin leather travel bag. Classic black. I will have it forever. If you see me at the airport in another thirty years, I will literally be carrying this baby-- provided, of course, I can still sling twenty pounds over my shoulder.

How much would you pay for it? Hint: It retailed originally at Land's End for $299.

The bag started off on their mark-down site at $179. I snatched it up once it got slashed an additional 50 percent to $89. The day that I purchased it, there was a 30 percent off coupon, which also included free shipping. So my $299 bag went into my shopping cart at $60.

Impressive. I guess. But I wasn't quite done.

We charge just about everything, paying the bills in full every month, in order to rack up those retail points, without paying any interest. As a result, I had a $50 Land's End gift certificate free and clear. And once I applied that sucker, my $299 bag cost me a whopping, drum roll please, $10.

So no, I'm not rich.

Just smart.

Self-Worth

I got offered a writing gig last week. The payout was major.

Mmm-hmm. $5.40 an hour.

Let that sink in for a second.

For comparative purposes, the minimum wage in Rhode Island is $7.40 an hour. Twelve-year-old babysitters, the kid who shovels your driveway and fast food attendants at McDonald's all make more than what I was offered. Me--a professional wordsmith with nearly twenty years of writing experience--in addition to a Newsweek by-line.

I'm not bitter.

The latest in underpaying job offers was for a website, which shall remain nameless, to write 30 hotel reviews: 25 in Providence and 5 in Newport. The write-ups, which did not require an overnight stay, would bank me $15 apiece, with an additional $75 for travel expenses.

This put the grand total of my contract at $525. Pre-taxes. Another perk of freelancing is that I'm responsible for paying my own. So once Uncle Sam gets his twenty-five percent cut off the top, the starting point for this lucrative contract rolled down to $393.

For this assignment, I calculated I'd physically have to hit the road 6 times: 5 trips to Providence and one to Newport. And, because there are not 25 hotels in Providence proper, it's a fair guess that some of the properties were in neighboring communities.

Considering all of these factors, I conservatively estimated travel time for the whole project at 7 hours. The actual reviewing/writing time per hotel? I pegged that at roughly 1.25 hours each, bringing the estimated total for the whole project to 51.5 hours.

And then I needed to consider expenses, including parking and gas, which I tallied at a minimum of $10 per local outing. The Newport trip would be a bit more: $20 gas, $10 parking, $25 lunch and $8 in tolls. The grand expense total: $113.

For those who suck at math, I arrived at the proposed hourly rate by taking the starting contract amount of $393, subtracting the expenses of $113, then dividing the remaining amount of $280 by the total hours worked, 51.5 hours. And there you have it: $5.43 per hour.

The saddest part? There's no doubt someone took this assignment after I turned it down.

And this is far from the first time I've either declined, or even lost jobs, because of rate disagreements.

I certainly didn't become a writer for the money. And trust, while I well understand the importance of generating clips for your portfolio, taking assignments at truly pathetic rates, just makes it worse for everyone. Writers, are you listening?

WE. ARE. NOT. GETTING. PAID. WHAT. WE. ARE. WORTH.  

There is this twisted perception among those in charge of editorial budgeting, that writers are not skilled professionals. That any writer will work out just fine, because, well, technically, everyone can write. Blek. I suppose if you're defining writing as the act of string words together, instead of a crafted art, that's true. But the end-product isn't going to be anywhere close to the same.

I wish that more writers would join me in standing up for ourselves and stop taking assignments that are downright insulting. Or put more plainly: Writers, how 'bout we f'n stop selling each other (and ourselves) short? Ask for what you deserve. And walk if you don't get it.

In the meantime, to all of the publications that believe price is more important than content, here's my wish for you:  I sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, hope you get what you paid for.  

A Celebration of The During

Before and after.

Meh. So yesterday's news.

The before is no doubt the most complicated of relationships. The before is only a shadow of your best self. It's the you that needs work. And, consequently the you you'd rather forget.

But the before holds its own power. It's what pushed you in the first place to work towards those goals. To become better. The before encouraged you to start the journey towards improvement in the first place. And, most importantly, the before serves as a marker to provide physical evidence of your personal growth. The before is a clear reflection of how far you need to go and just how far you've come.

The after? Bor-ing. The after is 'the end', the controlled, cleaned-up sanitized happy ending. It's the beautiful, perfect, airbrushed image after you've crossed the finish line, then showered, put on the designer duds and opted for a bit of professional help from your hair, make-up and airbrushing team. Sure it may look all pretty and perfect, but it doesn't show how your got there. Or how much you sweat along the way.

I'm interested in the during. That grit your teeth, pull yourself up by the bootstraps period when you're at maximum motivation. The during is about determination. When you're not really sure how, when or if you'll break through to the other side, but there's something inside you that just won't let you quit.

The during is a celebration of ugly. Of the teeth gritting, only-a-Mama-could love, not ready for prime time mug that's only on display when you're busting your hump. When you're focused and trying to silence the haters. The during takes all of your energy. Challenges your drive. Forces you to look at just how bad you want it. And what you'll do to get it done.

The during is not some sort of magical period between the before and after, where you click your heels together and wind up where you want to be, just because you think you deserve it.

The during is the journey. The during is enduring.

Respect the during.

Guest Post: Lenny Kravitz -- The Man I Wish I Never Met

Plain and simple. You don't want to mess with a writer.

Writers are observers. Writers are communicators.

We. Speak. Up.

It would probably be best if you stopped underestimating our powers.

Meet my friend (and first guest poster) Ester. She's from the Netherlands. She's a writer. And, quite frankly, she rocks. (In more ways than one.)

Ester is also a  H-U-G-E Lenny Kravitz fan. She had the opportunity to meet him recently. Here's what went down:

Lenny Kravitz -The Man I Wish I Never Met

by Ester Bos

A friend blessed me with a meet and greet with Lenny Kravitz. Of course I would travel over 1200 kilometers for that. I wish I hadn't.

Oh, he was everything I dreamed he would be. Kind, polite, humble, thankful. His body in balance with grace, beauty and strength.

I think I saw his spirit shine. Shine with love. So yes, he was able to live up to my expectations.

I thanked him for spreading such a positive message. He seemed eager to hear what I had to say. Our hands accidentally touching. He turned so he would face me. Looked into my eyes while he thanked me. He told me that it really meant a lot to him.

Magic!

I'm this small town girl. He is this big star. I knew I wasn't going to be his new best friend. But he does fulfill my every desire. You know, musically speaking.

What I didn't know was that the only way to meet him was to have my picture taken with him. I tried to tell his tour manager that I had no need for this sort of trophy. I wanted to make good use of the little time that I had with him. I wanted to talk to him. She didn't understand. This was the way it had to be done.

I know I'm the odd one out.

So when they had me standing next to him, I did not look at the camera. I spoke. He seemed surprised that anyone was even talking to him.

How is it Lenny, to be treated as this precious thing in the rare objects cabinet? To be such a phenomenon that people want proof they met you? And that the proof is more important than the actual interaction with you? My heart bleeds for you.

You know how the universe always gives you what you ask for? That photo? I still haven't got it.

My meet and greet with Lenny Kravitz, the whole 30 seconds, all happened while the band was already playing 'Come On Get It'. So after the camera clicked, he had to leave. And left me craving for something that can never be.

Now for the first time in the 18 years that I've been his fan, I can't bring myself to listen to his music. It hurts too much. I don't think that Lenny Kravitz wanted this for me.

I know he is probably doing it all to himself. But I think he deserves much much better. And so does my friend who payed thousands of dollars for this 'amazing opportunity'.

Where can you get more Ester? Well, right here, of course:
http://mymindtoyourmind.wordpress.com