Morning Coffee: Needles and Haystacks

So yeah, hi. Been awhile.

I took a few days off my regular person job to finish a few articles I have going, so I thought I’d also look for more. You know, so I can stop working the regular person job.

It turns out (and this is not surprising, but it “turns out” anyway, so deal with it) that finding regular work as a freelance writer is a bit like trying to find sand in a pile of dirt. It’s there for the taking, but it’s often impossible to differentiate between the good and the bad.

I recently came across a tech blog that was looking for writers. I won’t name names because that would be silly and it isn’t the point, but their articles were mostly just summaries of press releases. Which is fine. The blog looked like it got a good number of views and comments, so I thought I’d give it a shot. What I got in return was a little surprising.

In short, I got offered $150 to $250 for a minimum of 17 articles per week. The offer promised each article would take one hour to write, but I’ve done this enough times to know that would be a best case scenario. However, if we assume it would take one hour to write an article like that, I’d be working 17 hours per week, which could, yes, be done in two days, for up to $250 per month. That’s around $58 for two full workdays. And that’s the best case scenario.

But it doesn’t stop there. No, after watching those numbers get flung at me, I was told that all of this glorious pay would only take hold after I had proven myself. So now I’m being told that I get to work for free with $29 per day to look forward to.

For the record, when a job offer ends with, “some of our writers make up to $350 a month,” run. Just run. Your most generously compensated contributors make less than they would flipping burgers, and probably work close to fulltime doing only that? For what? A resume?

If you’re worth hiring, you’re worth paying. Simple as that. It shouldn’t be complicated.

John Scalzi had something to say about this as well.

A Sick Day is Just a Black Hole to Put Your Time Into

I am the sickest of the sicks today and I blame snow. Go away, snow. Nobody likes you anymore. We were all like, “yaaaay, Christmaaaaas” when you first showed up. Five months ago. Seriously, how can anybody even think that’s a proper amount of time to stick around. GIT.

So, I have the grumpies. For damned good reason. But still. Them grumpies will stick around for the day. Or until the cotton falls out of my brain. Whichever comes first.

Lately, I’ve been busy with work of varying occupation. I write and then I work in a machine shop and then I write again. It’s a little bit like being bipolar, really. I’d like it over with as quickly as possible, but the bills need paying and, frankly, filling time I would not otherwise be receiving a paycheque for with activities that do give me money seems like a great idea. So that’s how that is.

Anyway, taking today off to do nothing but sleep sounds like a nightmare, so I thought I’d at least take a break from napping and tossing and turning on a couch that has an inexplicable penchant for making my back sweat (whose back sweats? Seriously.) and post here, run-ons and all.

Zombieland became a TV show without me noticing. I’m not sure how that came about, but now that I’ve seen the pilot, I’m disappointed I ever knew it existed. The editing was off-time, the acting was childish and the story is as shallow as your average video game shooter list of go-here, go-here, go-here, explosion, done. The best scene was, perhaps for the best, the first one. Which I would recommend because the acting is actually believable and the scene is funny. But it goes so far downhill after that. Tallahassee is the kind of character you want to see die. That’s not a good trait for the character who’s supposed to be a badass.

For the record, I’m not saying you shouldn’t watch it. Who knows? If the show gets enough attention and they decide to give it a season, maybe they’ll actually put some effort in. But you’d do yourself some good to watch it with a grain of salt.

Now I’m going to go stare blankly at my TV for a while. I hope your weekend is full of your favourite things.

Oh, and North Korea is a big baby whiner. Waaaaaaaaaa.

Something To Fill The Blanks In A Little

That writing withdrawal sure hits hard. I’m not sure why I even let myself go so long without it.

I keep making promises about writing more here and it seems that I deliver less and less each time. So, I think I’m through with that. I’m going to write what I want until I can start writing what I should. It’s a different approach at least.

It’s been weird lately. Too full. My head feels stuffy and I don’t have energy for anything except faking it. Which is fine. It happens to everyone. But I don’t like it. And I don’t really have someone to crack the whip anymore, so I just drag my feet through the mud and wonder why they get heavy.

Anyway. Here’s something from right now. It’s a little bit cyclic. Feedback would be great.

* * *

Rain. It’s like salvation for asphalt, except it doesn’t wash away the stink. It just wets the tar and lets it up into our nostrils so that we can carry the city’s sins for a little while.

Umbrellas don’t keep that off. Rooftops try and fail. There’s always some mud to walk through.

I watched the end of a two-month drought streak across foggy windowpanes from where I sat at the bar. I’d gone on for a few drinks already, and I’d have a couple more before I called it a day. There’s no place for a man like me in the rain. Not for the books anyway.

They only pay in cash when you work out of the sun.

Speaking of cash, I had a thick fold of it packing my hip pocket against the bottom of the bar. I was looking to balance the other leg.

A fox settled onto the stool next to me. I could smell it on her, vanilla promise and sweet, sweet lipstick to hide what lay inside. She was all curves and seduction and her red dress threatened to cough her up.

“You could turn that mug into something a little less menacing if you let the drinks cheer you up, you know,” she said coyly.

“If that’s supposed to pass for a compliment, you could use a few more drinks yourself,” I growled and sucked down the last of my beer.

“I’m more of a conversationalist than a drinker,” she replied and fixed me with something between a sly smile and piercing gaze. “What puts a man like you so close against the bar?”

I didn’t meet her eyes. They would be poisonous. “A combination of fortune and none of yours,” I finally muttered and nodded at a fresh drink.

“Good fortune?”

“That depends.” I drank.

“I guess it’d kill you to tell me what it depends on.”

I snorted. “Not me, it wouldn’t.”

“Well why don’t you tell me your name then? We can start fresh.”

“Lady,” I turned to give her a firm look and met her damned eyes. If they were poison, it was mixed with too much honey to see. I wondered what that did to her perception. “If I had a name to give and “start fresh,” we’d have to have a place to start from. And as far as I know, you’re just another fixture in this damned drinking joint. Now if you don’t mind.”

She accepted that with quiet silence for a moment, but I could hear the gears spinning. “I don’t suppose you’d care to buy me a drink then?”

Well, if that was how she wanted it. I bought her a drink.

“I can’t promise to be here long,” I said after a long silence.

“I don’t expect so.”

I liked her style. Questions I could say no to and she kept her assumptions to herself. “What gives you that idea?” I asked.

“You’re here for something you’d rather not do,” she said simply. “You’ve been drinking since afternoon and you’re still sober as a priest. Whatever your next step is, you can’t take it. I’ve seen that look before.”

“You’ve seen it in the eyes of sailors about to leave their clutch. That’s hardly the same thing.”

“Sailors can come back. Guns for hire never do.”

She didn’t have to assume because she knew. My spine went cold, so I took another drink.

“What did you expect?” she asked after watching me work it all out.

“I can’t say I did much expecting at all,” I muttered into the glass. “But you saw that too.”

“I don’t miss much. That’s why we’re both here.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“And why not?’

I met her eyes again. They were getting foggy. “Murder is hard. But killing in a fair fight is easy.”

Her rosy lips parted and those poisoned eyes widened. “You knew?”

“I don’t miss much.”

The rain felt good as it washed her scent from my nostrils and replaced it with the smell of tar underfoot. The mud would wash away.

So Much For That!

Remember how l was all set on writing new content for The Fevered and Roach pickin’? Well, apparently l need to not decide things for my future anymore.

Ready for the update? Here goes.

Work has been a little slow. Now, compared to where l was a year ago, calling it slow sounds whiny, even to me. But, I’m not where l want or need to be yet. l thought moving west and crashing with my parents for a month or two would give me the breathing room l needed.

Life is funny. Planning one thing usually means another will happen.

My dad works in a machine shop. l used to do the same and basically swore it off because blah. So when his boss asked if l would come work for them, my answer went something like “nonononononono.”

And then they told me what they wanted to pay me. So here we are.

I’m still trying to work my writing back into my schedule. The job wrecks my desire to do anything in the evening, but they have promised me time off for writing when l want it.

So that’s where we’re at. l do still need to get to a place when l can know what to expect from everything that’s happening. A lot has changed in a short time and it’s quite a bit to ingest. But l am not dead. Or a zombie robot. Just so we’re clear.

I’m Not Dead

So, things got crazy. I got offered a spur-of-the-moment job that was too tempting to pass on. It’s only a temporary thing, so it won’t derail my plans for too long (and they’re letting me schedule around my freelance work, too,) but it might take me a couple days to figure out how to keep everything in the air.

Don’t worry, though. I’m still here. I’m just going to be slammed with the busy for a while.

Morning Coffee: The Dog Spilled My Espresso

 

Of all the clumsy things to do, why must this dog insist on knocking over something so important? That infuriating, fat animal just had to attack some bread crumb she found on the floor and barrel straight into the table with my coffee on it in the process.

But how could I ever be mad at these eyes?That animal…

Anyway, I’m off to do some writing for you. Watch for new content in The Fevered! Have a Tuesday!

 

Morning Coffee: I’m Back

Well, I’m back. I worked until midnight on Friday. It was somewhat hellish and made me wonder why I was doing what I’m doing.

But I would write anyway, so getting paid to do it is a happy bonus. I wouldn’t give that up for the world. Even if it means slaving away for far longer than I want.

Anyway, this week looks a lot more empty, which means I’ll have time to write a few chapters in The Fevered (the site allows for Facebook logins now, by the way.) I’ll get something up for Roach Pickin’, as well. If you haven’t read either, The Fevered is like I Am Legend meets Doomsday, or something like that. Roach Pickin’ is my unabashed homage to gritty, Gears of War-type sci-fi. Give them a look if you’re bored or interested or both.

Jim Butcher is officially writing a new series! And it’s steampunk! I’ll always have a special place in my heart for his Harry Dresden novels and can’t wait for the next one, but I loved the Codex Alera so I am all kinds of excited about him starting something new.

I’m taking today off of work entirely, so I’m off to play Crysis 3 and not feel guilty about it. Hah. Look for a new chapter in The Fevered by Wednesday. And if a new chapter does not appear by then, you can safely conclude that I have been killed and an impostor has taken my place. Be very mean to him.

Almost There

Nothing from me again, folks. This deadline wants to eat my brain.

Here is a truck.

Morning Coffee: Panic!

I’ve taken root in a Starbucks today. So much work needs to happen that I can’t help but feel a little bit excited about how panicked I am.

Something is broken in me, I think.

I think I’m going to have to finish Paper Trail soon. Freelance writing is a great day job, but I can’t prioritize my fiction over it properly.

I have to get to it, though. Because editors don’t like when you’re late and all that. And, you know, it’s work, which is great. Plus it’s writing. As John Scalzi so often says, my life does not suck. (Though I have some distance to cover before I can say it with the same gloating success that he does.)

And if the picture above looks interesting to you, that’s a 3D printed mug. Check it out here.

Morning Coffee: Same Shit, Different Province

So, that’s done. The day I set to drive across the country also happened to play host to some amazing whiteout conditions. Honestly, driving through blankets of snow and fog on black ice isn’t my idea of fun.

And I’d just like to say, if you pass traffic when you can’t see past a quarter mile, you’re an idiot. I was almost in a head-on collision that would have been easily avoided if some moron hadn’t decided his giant-ass truck entitled him to pass right when he met me. But no, after you. I’ll just drive here on the shoulder. Sideways. Because that’s how we do it in Canada.

Ugh. Trucks, especially jacked up ones. I swear, either they do something to turn people into self-obsessed retards or that’s just the demographic they sell to.

Don’t be one of them. Nobody will like you and you will not become some demi-god who does not bow to the will of the world around you.

End rant. But to recap, don’t be an idiot.

Have a Tuesday worth enthusing about, people. I promise I’ll write something longer for you after this week of crazy everything is over.

OH! Also! I now live within driving distance of my fiancee! If I weren’t so freakishly busy this week, I’d go and see her right now. But you know, bills and paycheques and deadlines and all that.

On with Tuesday!