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.

Beyond The Headlines

To some (unfortunate) people, life is black and white. Good or bad. Right or wrong. They're the headline readers of life. The ones who only see the big picture, never looking past it for another layer. They avoid digging deeper for the details, because they've got it all figured out.

Even when they don't.

The headline from our yard, late Sunday night: Man Destroys Fence. Police Respond.

The facts: We spied someone, who we did not know, violently trying to tear down a section of our fence at 11PM. The same one it took two years to install and two (long, hot) days to stain this summer. We went all Code Red: Andre ran outside sans shirt. I called the police.

We would have been well within our rights to press charges. To pick up the broken wooden pickets, while the responding officer charged the perpetrator. Call it a night.

But neither my husband nor I are ever content to accept things at face value.

By the time the officer arrived, we had already taken ourselves beyond the reflex action stage, totally based on anger, and uncovered much more of the story. Turns out the kid in question was in a whole lot of emotional pain. His mom died. And he was grieving. So he took it out on our fence. Granted, this doesn't excuse his actions. But it does explain them.

Andre gave his condolences. He and the young man shared a calm conversation on the sidewalk in front of our house about the importance of properly channeling your emotions. And how people work hard for what they have. It was a teachable moment. For everyone.

My point? It's a rare story that fits into a neat box, no matter who the starring characters are. So, you can either decide to accept the visible version as an absolute truth. Or demonstrate the fortitude to challenge your assumptions and what you think the ending should be.

The choice? All yours.

Guest Post: Why I’m Reluctant to Write About Not Wanting Children

Like any good girl, I grew up with certain expectations: Get married. Have kids.

This was part of my moral compass. Like brushing your teeth twice a day. Or getting the oil changed in your car every three thousand miles. These were non-negotiables.

So I got married.

But didn't have any kids.

Why? Pretty simple really.

I don't want any.

The decision to remain a party of two did not happen overnight. As my husband Andre and I grew, both individually and as a couple, we began to challenge this concept of one-size-fits-all-living and realized our lives were pretty perfect as is.

For us, nothing was missing. And somehow, having kids just because everyone else was doing it, didn't seem like a very good reason.

At all.

This, as OUR personal choice, doesn't seem like something that should make other people angry or confused. But oh, how it does. Honestly, I believe their ire has less to do with the actual child bearing part, and more with the fact that, not only have we stepped outside of the script of martial obligations, but we've emerged on the other side unaffected.

And pretty darn happy.

Opting not to have children does not make us selfish; it makes us outstandingly in touch with our desires. And quite frankly, I'm tired of feeling that somehow we're doing something wrong. We mentor. We are active in our communities. WE. ARE. MAKING. A. DIFFERENCE. And if you're judging my character or basing my self-worth as a person on whether or not I'm a parent, then that's an incredibly sad reflection.

On you.

Who encouraged me to speak up? None other than guest poster number two, the fabulous Ms. Javacia Harris Bowser. She told me how important it is for women to hear our stories.

So without further adieu, here's hers:

Guest Post

Why I’m Reluctant to Write About Not Wanting Children

By: Javacia Harris Bowser of WriteousBabe.com

The other day a writer pal of mine tweeted about her fear of writing on controversial topics. I quickly jumped in (Writeous Babe to the rescue!) and reminded her that the best of essays are those that take an unpopular stance on an issue. Then she replied that she was mostly reluctant for fear that her opinion would change. I told her that was OK. I don't believe writers should ever pretend to have it all figured out. We don't have all the answers and we should admit that. "Writing is about asking questions," I tweeted. And after she marked my tweet as a favorite I felt special, like I had said something important and sage.

Then I realized I was a hypocrite.

Lately the thing that's been on my mind most is a controversial, unpopular choice of mine that I've been leery to write about.

I don't want children.

In January of 2008 I was diagnosed with a condition that would most likely make pregnancy, delivery, and life after childbirth extremely difficult for me. When people close to me, people aware of this issue, ask me why my husband and I aren't trying to have kids I use this condition as an excuse. But it's just that -- an excuse. I don't want children, and it has nothing to do with my health.

I had a wide variety of responses ready for the moment when someone asks why I'm not trying to get knocked up: We're not quite ready. We need to put away more money in savings. We want to buy a house first. Excuse. Excuse. Excuse.

A few months ago -- ironically on Mother's Day -- I made the decision to drop the excuses. And when random lady at the supermarket asked why my husband and I don't have kids, I boldly replied, "I don't want children." That has been my response to anyone who has asked since then. And for some reason I'm asked this question about once a week, usually by someone who can't even correctly pronounce my name and, therefore, has no business asking me something so personal. But I digress.

I've wanted to write about the hilarious array of reactions I get to my declaration that I don't want children, but in order to do that I would have to write about the fact that I, you know, don't want children. And that I didn't want to do.

Sure, I've written about this matter in a lighthearted manner in the past like when I wrote a column for the weekly I used to work for about remaining childless for reasons such as I didn't want my perky boobs to sag after becoming lactation stations. And like this piece I wrote for The Hairpin.

But I've never dealt with this topic seriously in my writing. Why? For the same reason my friend wouldn't tackle her tough topics -- I'm afraid I'll change my mind. At this point in my life I'm pretty sure I will not. When I was in my 20s everyone said as soon as I turned 30 I'd go baby crazy. But when that monumental birthday rolled around last year I began to feel more certain than ever that I did not want to be a mom. Still, there is a chance I could change my mind.

No, I'm not worried about proving right all the people who said I would, in fact, change my mind. Those are the same people who think I don't want kids because I wasn't hugged enough as a child. (Growing up my brother and I never went to bed without my parents first giving us a hug, a kiss, and an "I love you.") And those are the same people who say ridiculous things like, "Motherhood is a woman's purpose and duty." Ergo, I don't care what they think.

What I’m worried about is changing my mind, having a kid, and then one day Writeous Baby reads this post and starts yelling, “Mommy! You didn’t want me?! You don’t love me!” That is my fear. But I guess it’s too late now. The declaration that I want to remain child-free has been made and posted in cyberspace.

And in case it's 2030 and you're reading this, Writeous Baby, please know that if you're in this world it's because I not only wanted you, but decided I couldn't live without you.

Javacia Harris Bowser is an educator and writer living in Birmingham, Ala. She blogs at WriteousBabe.com. You can [Editor's note:  And should!] follow her on Twitter @writeousbabe.

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