Writing for Free is a Mutha!
What the fuck have I been doing?
Okay, yes — I love the reassurance of knowing that I’m somehow skilled enough to grab the attention of readers.
And trust me when editors hound me — it feels quite good. Creatives thrive off of the fact that they are spending their time effectively.
Writers always start off writing and then suddenly without warning it evolves into the circus of plotting, conniving and even stealing.
We want, no, we need to be seen and read.
We have to understand that the number of people that have thus far — given our work credit will rise steadily without fail.
For me — the desire to be wanted, pales in comparison to the hunger I feel when the words reach the surface of my tongue.
My method is simple. Just write.
Perhaps this is why I have sold my soul to wealthy heathens who operate on the premise that because they are so privileged — one-sided transactions will benefit me greatly.
Exposure. Dirty word. Almost vile in its attempt to hide the inevitable.
It’s a trap. And I fell right through — legs first into the churning brew of brands, trends, and idiocracy.
It begins with a highly reputable publication that has developed an insatiable habit of patrolling Medium — in search of free loot to take back to the mothership.
When I was approached — I eagerly offered up my wares as if there was something in it for me other than formulaic redundancy.
What a fool! Can’t you see? You’re killing us!
Selling your packaged goods for nothing more than a mention and product placement — in the hopes of being squashed in an overly crowded generic factory.
You’re dumber than you thought.
It becomes a clear cut issue of bullshit as you realize that while you’re banking on your bank account not shutting down — these rich motherfuckers are profiting from your efforts.
Meanwhile you’re stuck wondering how to calculate the gains of exposure as it pertains to your wobbly financial state and stagnant career.
This smells gross and even worse than steamed shit.
I want out.
I need to evacuate the business of willingly and stupidly carting off my work for free — so that online publications that rely solely on a stellar name and erratically recycled content can stay in business.
What about my business?
What about the dignity of being treated like the pro that I am? How about the respect that should accompany the request to repost and reprint with the offer of some coins to match the input and output.
What does it take to recognize that writing is an art form that deserves to be appreciated and handled with compensation?
I guess it starts with me understanding what I just fucking said and doing what needs to be done to profess it.
A defiant cause and effect put into place to phase out the greedy scumbags who really don’t think your work is that compelling.
They never read what you write.
Everyone likes it and the systematic vote has catapulted you into red hot status. They need you now! And you comply under the yearning of bragging rights and public adulation.
Don’t do it. Think of…
The hours, the days, the time, effort, wells and swells of emotions and almost hypnotic symbiosis that are uprooted to benefit your masterpiece.
It’s an orchestral delivery and everyone loves it but you love it more.
Then it gets tossed into a pile of other like-witted fodder and nobody can tell which is which or who is who.
You’re no longer a writer. You’re a laborer without the proof to prove it.
And you can’t make your rent for the month even though five pieces were sold that week.
That’s when you rage up as you realize that writing for free is mutha!