Slave labor in 2010? What gives me the nerve to complain?

I made a decision today. I signed up with a freelance site where you bid for writing jobs that pay embarrassingly (and piss-pottingly) little.

Embarrassing to whom, you might ask. Clearly not to the people who post these jobs and demand that your English is impeccable, that your articles are original, keyword rich and Copyscape-proofed and that you churn out a hundred of these 300-1000 word articles for anywhere from $1 per article to a staggering $3.50.

And that's just what they tell you they want.  Chances are, they want a lot more than they mention and will pick someone who offers a lot more and asks for a lot less. Oh, and you'd better promise to do it quick time too because there's bound to be others who'll bid lower than you and promise to do all this and more in one day and have a portfolio to prove it too.

Yeah, I staggered alright.  At that rate, would I earn enough to pay for a day's internet, electricity, rent and food even if I worked the entire twenty-four hours, give or take an hour for meal, toilet and stretch breaks? Heck, would I be able to buy myself enough coffee to keep me pumpin'?

I don't think I'm being very sensible here, signing up, despite the fact I've already been invited to bid for a job and to get ready to start. I mean I love writing, no doubt about that. But this is where slave labor mocks the fine art and pure joy of writing, surely?

I was and still am embarrassed. by the fact that I've submitted to this exploitation and done so out of desperation.  But why should I be embarrassed?

There really is no justification for any emotion we feel nor is one ever needed.  An explanation, however, may be possible and perhaps even desirable. It might help me understand why I've chosen to do what I've done.

I'm embarrassed because I've resisted doing this for so long, believing that I would make my enviable fortunes (not that I particularly want anyone to envy me) doing what I love doing and being respected and remunerated for the quality of my work of love. And, as is obvious, I have not (yet) succeeded.

In the meantime, this trade of 'goods and services' shows no indication of wanting to either respect or remunerate my work. Nor does it show any desire to value me as a writer offering it the carefully nurtured fruits of her love.

"Get real" I hear you say. "If you can't hack it, go try your luck elsewhere. In the meantime, quit whining.  There are people who are prepared to do much more for much less.  Consider yourself fortunate and if you can't, go nurse your ego elsewhere".

This persuades me to draw one of two conclusions:

Conclusion One:
I should be grateful. I should quit playing le petite violin and get on with it. Or I should get a 'real' job commensurate with my qualifications and 'real work' (corporate) experience of several years.

Conclusion Two:
I should do something about a system that allows one person/party in a transaction to get what they're satisfied with and that enables them to easily build on what they have while the other person/party neither gets what they want nor is able to easily provide for what they need, never mind build on anything.

So, what can I do?

I suppose you're wondering how I got to this dire state in the first place where I've had to resort to extreme measures. Yeah, well, that's a long story and not one that I care to relate, at least not today.

Something tells me I need to be in a system in order to change it.  And according to Buckminster Fuller, the way to overcome a bad system is not by fighting it but by building a better model that makes the other one obsolete.  I just love that idea.  I wish I could design a better model.

OK, perhaps it's a Law of Attraction moment. I should imagine a better system and feel how good that would be.  Then, start allowing my intuition to guide me while I do some research and allow myself to be propelled in the manifesting momentum of the Law.

But more important that any of that, I must want it enough.

Well, do I? And if I don't, why not? Because it would be too hard?

I mustn't let that kind of thinking detract from a truly beautiful vision. I realize that if I didn't believe or think how difficult it might be, I'd really want to do this.

Well, good people, I'm going to let this feeling take me on a new adventure.  Would any of you like to join me?

     

   

T

I didn't come into this world to be 'safe' or 'The fear of writing fearlessly'

There are some thoughts that interest me and some that don't. (How's that for stating the bleeding obvious?).

Forgive me but I just felt I needed to say that and in all honesty, I cannot tell you why I did as I don't know the reason myself. Perhaps it's because it helps me get to what I really want to say, like a bridge across where I think you are and where I want to take you.  And where's that?

I'm not sure but let's start from here - a discussion thread I came across on an online forum:  

What kind of a writer are you?

It's not a question that particularly interests me although it prompted one that does:   

Why do I write what I write and the way I write?

I've chosen to blog (which, every now and again, qualifies as writing ;)) under the relatively safe guise of a pseudonym. It's a carefully chosen pseudonym albeit not the most original or intriguing. But it is intended to convey some truths about me that may be of interest to a reader.

I chose to write somewhat anonymously because it gives me a degree of freedom I am unable to access from within my given identity, at least not yet. My nom de plume, however, allows me to explore thoughts and ideas I've prevented my 'given' self from exploring. It also allows me to say things I do not give my 'given' self permission to say and in ways I tend not to allow it to.

You see, the character inside my nom de plume is one of the main characters in my soul's cast of characters that has thus far been denied an audience. It's true, it has been speaking but no one outside the cast has ever heard it. So I write to share its thoughts, feelings, opinions and observations and to find out how they affect others which, in itself, is no great shakes except that it has drawn my attention to something a bit more interesting.

I'd naively assumed that this character of mine would speak without fear or restraint. What I'm discovering is something quite the contrary. It is fearful and it is restrained, admittedly not always and not in the same way that my 'given' character is!

This observation surprises and disturbs me. If an assumed name and relative anonymity will not release me from my fears and inhibitions as a writer, what on earth will?  And at least as pressing and intriguing a question is, Why? Why do I not feel safe enough to be free?

I suppose I could just as easily and meaningfully ask the question, Why am I not free enough to feel safe?

What do I still fear?

Shall I be completely honest? It is that I may be disliked.

Now that I've said it, I can actually sit back and contemplate its significance. It's almost laughable from this psychological distance.

Imagine living my life just so that I will be liked by others. So what if people don't like me? Will it make me any less known or less appreciated than I currently am? Does it matter? Does it matter more than the freedom I'm denying myself?

I don't think so but I'd be deluding myself if I claimed that feeling liked and appreciated aren't good feelings. They're good, very good feelings indeed.  But I learned a while ago that my happiness is not contingent upon what others think or feel about me unless, of course, I choose to make it so.

I mean, you might think I'm wonderful today and waste no opportunity telling the whole world the same but tomorrow something might happen and you'll decide I am one ungrateful, deceitful, mean animal. It's true. It's happened to me and the person in question was someone who maintained throughout his 10-year tirade that he loved me and had never stopped loving me. What's more, some people actually believe him. And, of course, he believes it himself.

I'm grateful to him in many ways for many things. No, I'm not being facetious. I mean it sincerely. He helped me build my confidence. (He also helped tear it down but I'm past that). He showed me through his personality, how to come out of my shell and avoid melancholy which I can easily slip into. And he also made me discover the true meaning of love by demonstrating very clearly to me what it is not.

Oh gosh, I really didn't think I'd be dredging all this stuff up but that's what happens when you let a thought take you where it wants to go. Anyways, back to my fear of writing fearlessly.

Perhaps I just need to be patient with myself. Give my character time to feel safe enough to come to the realization that the 'safe' mind can never fully explore and experience the 'limitless unknown' which is what I think true magic is. And I want magic. I'm sure I came into this world for it. At least, I'm certain I didn't come here to be safe.

What do you think? Can you relate to any of this?

"It's only by risking our persons from one hour to another that we live at all"  William James

   

     

   

I plan to remain ageless

 "When I dream, I am ageless"  Elizabeth Coatsworth

My friend, L, whom I visited yesterday is one cool lady.  I don't have the time nor the mood to go into her coolness in this post but I'm sure I'll get you better acquainted with her in future posts.

Anyways, L is nearly eighty but you'd never know it to see her or hear her or be in her company.

Now, that's one of the silliest things I've said because,. unfortunately, it's reflective of a mind with a preconceived idea of what an eighty year-old (or thereabouts) is like. It's something that I'm consciously trying to change and my bringing it to your attention here is one way of doing it.

I mean, whatever age a person is and however he or she looks at that age is exactly how that age looks on him or her. Know what I mean?

When people tell me that I look a lot younger than I am, I tell them, "No, I look exactly my age and this is exactly how my age looks on me".

Anyways, I really wanted to tell you about what had happened to my friend, L, a weekend ago when she was out with her grandson, P, and his family.  They'd all gone to a theme park as a birthday treat for P who turned twelve. But no sooner had they got there, when L, excited as she was about spending the day with the family, fell over an old tree root that had cracked through the footpath.

L admitted that she literally had't looked where she was going, not that that tree root had much business being there.  Oh, I suppose you could argue that the footpath shouldn't have been built near a grand old tree, but let's save that discussion for another time, shall we?

Well, L took a bad fall, which, miraculously, resulted in only minor physical injury (a swollen wrist that is still painful) and some bruises over her arm.

So, how was the fall bad?

It was the shock of it, the actual physical trauma resulting from the body falling suddenly and uncontrollably.  As L related her story, I could see that she was not completely over it.  And soon, she confirmed it:

"I'm still feeling a bit scared.  I don't feel so confident now.  And I was so upset because it was P's birthday and we couldn't enjoy it because we spent the first part at the doctor's surgery and for the rest of it, I had to hold on to A's arm all the time. They (the theme park management) offered me a wheel chair but I didn't want it. I ruined his birthday".

   

"Oh, L", I thought but didn't say,  "No, you didn't.  It could've happened to anyone".  Instead, I just let her continue talking.  It felt right to.

I remember going to a theme park with my boyfriend at the time and his mates when I was about twenty.  We went on as many rides as we could but at one point, I felt quite ill which I'm sure had to do with all that swinging on the 'Pirate ship' not long after we'd had some lunch - bad idea.  Well, before I knew it, I'd thrown up right in the middle of the area next to the ship.

I cannot begin to tell you how embarrassed I was and later, how surprised and touched I was that neither my boyfriend nor his mates were repulsed.  On the contrary, they came right over to comfort and console me, offering me water and tissues to clean up and then taking me over to the toilet.

     

Throwing up, falling over, spraying saliva are things we do no matter what age we are.  I can't help thinking that poor L, like so many older people, are likely to blame age for their 'accidents' even if they don't say so openly.

I think we've been conditioned to expect things like this to happen to us as we get older and so, surprise,surprise, they do!  There are enough people and advertisements to caution us about aging and help us 'prepare' for it.  I mean, if you prepare yourself for a disaster you're not exactly going to be showing yourself a good time, are you? 

Now,  I had no idea I was going to be writing about being conditioned to 'age' but there you have it.  I've just followed a thought and it's brought me here. Which is one of the reasons I write - I love surprises :)

So, anyways, what are your thoughts about any of this?

Ten things to do when you want to write but just can't decide what

It took me fifteen years to discover I had no talent for writing, but I couldn't give it up because by that time I was too famous. - Robert Benchley

I've got a few posts in draft form waiting to be released when it's their turn.  In the meantime, I've been pacing my mind, you know, just trying to decide which of its thoughts I should pick up and lob over the net (no pun was intended but now that it's there, I'll take all the credit) between you and me.

I mean, I don't want to deal with death flippantly.  Nor do I want to have to rush through the joys of a single life (and its less joyous moments).  And of course, when it comes to that pesky three-letter word that has been humanity's ultimate bone of contention (and some would passionately avow, it's redemption), well, you don't want to be casual about that either. Yes, I'm talking about 'god'.

So, after much pacing and turning over the mental items on display (rather like sifting through the 'trash and treasure' in a flea market stall), I'm afraid the best I can come up with is a list of things to do when you've not quite decided what you want your next post to be.

Here we go:

1. Step away from your machine and go breathe the air outside.  It's a lot less stuffy.
2. Think of soft moments in your life like the times you kissed your mum or hugged your kids or let your cat nuzzle up to you.
3. Go chat with you dog and discuss some of the day's events with her like the call you got in the morning from a car rental company saying you'd received a speeding fine.
4. Have a shower and especially, wash your hair.  I could swear it turns the temperature in your head down a tad.
5. Go visit some other blogs. Again.  It's amazing how the weather (and even the local community) might have changed in that neck of the woods since your last visit.
6. Have a nice cup of coffee or a warm cup of soy milk and honey with some crushed ginger in it. It's a wonderful pick-me -upper, the soy milk one.
7. Exercise, gently, like you're meeting your body for the first time, you know?  Take your time, move slowly, listen to it, watch it, smile lots.
8. Pray.  For me that means just letting all my thoughts go and replacing it with just one - My mind is the center of divine operation (that's from Thomas Troward).
9. Cook.  Look into your fridge and ask the squatters there who'd like to party.  They'll almost always tell you.  If they don't, just ask your stomach who it'd like to host for the next four hours or so.  Then cook, slowly. It's the best kind of cooking, I've discovered.  Note, I said 'cook' not 'eat'.  You can leave that for later - a sweet reward :)
10. Write about the very thing you're having difficulty with, like I just did :)

Hope this helps.  Let me know what other cool tricks you have for this kind of writer's block.

       

PS

Related but unnecessary note from Thought Bubble Ten: This was the post I was writing when my blog got deleted.