The Freelance Writer’s Bill of Rights

This article is reposted from The Renegade Writer.  It is copyrighted by them and used by permission.  It is something I believe every writer should read.

Blog entry

Image via Wikipedia

The Freelance Writer’s Bill of Rights

1. You have the right to say no.

An editor asks you to write for exposure? “No.” A source asks to see your article before you turn it in? “No.” A friend keeps calling during your working hours because “you’re always free”? “No.” See how easy it is? You have the right to say no — and not feel guilty about it.

2. You have the right to ask for more.

If an editor approaches you with an assignment that doesn’t pay what you would need to make it work, or asks for all rights, or offers a pay-on-publication writing contract, you have the right to negotiate for something better. The first offer from an editor is not the end of the negotiation, it’s the beginning. If the pay isn’t enough, say “That seems a little low…can you offer me X?” If the contract stinks, know what you want instead (pay on acceptance? First North American Serial Rights? More pay for more rights?) and ask for it. The secret: Be ready to walk away if you can’t get what you want. If you’re not prepared to give up the assignment, you have no bargaining power.

3. You have the right to control your own time.

Sometimes, editors come to you six months after you turn in an assignment and say they need a total revise plus three new sidebars — by tomorrow. You have the right to determine whether that fits into your schedule and act accordingly. After all, you’re a businessperson. It’s not like you’re sitting by the phone for six months, schedule cleared in case your editor suddenly needs a revision done like yesterday. You have other work now, and you’ve arranged your schedule the way you need it to be in order to get your current work done. If you do have the time, try to cooperate with your editor. But if you have three deadlines this week and would have to pull an all-nighter to do the revisions, you have the right to say you can’t get the revisions done when the editor wants them. Then negotiate a better timeline for yourself.

4. You have the right to be treated fairly.

If you wrote an article on assignment and it was accepted, and then the magazine changed editorial direction and your article was killed, what’s fair — getting a kill fee or getting full pay? Full pay, of course, since you did the work according to the contract. If you pitch a detailed idea and the editor says she wants to give it to a staffer, you have the right to say no (and sell it somewhere else) or to ask for an idea fee. If a magazine leaves off your byline, you have the right to ask for a correction, and ask for a PDF file of the story with your name on it. In short: You have the right to be treated fairly and professionally. After all, you are a professional.

5. You have the right to be paid for your work.

Some writers feel they aren’t worth fair pay. They write over and over for no-pay magazines in order to amass enough clips to finally move up to the magazines that do pay fairly. But do you know how many clips you need to command pay? Zero. One of my e-course students broke into SELF magazine with a front-of-the-book piece. (That’s a $1.50/word market, people!) How many clips did she have? None. My first assignment paid $500, and I had no clips. What you need is a strong query letter, not a portfolio full of non-pay clips. You have the right to be paid for your work, just like your plumber and petsitter do (even newbie plumbers and petsitters!).

6. You have the right to look good.

When you write and fact check an article, you have the right to see it printed error-free. You don’t have the right to complain that the editor has changed your perfect prose (so don’t be a diva!) but you can expect that your sources’ names will be correct, your byline will be correct, and the facts in the article will be correct. If any of these things are incorrect, you have the right to ask for corrections. And if a magazine is notorious about messing things up, you have the right to ask to see a galley of the article before it goes to print.

7. You have the right to be paid in a timely manner.

Something scary is going on in the women’s magazine world: They’re hanging onto articles for months and months before “accepting” them, which means that you wait months and months to get paid. In other parts of the publishing world, magazines are running into budget problems and putting their freelancers last in line for payment. Remember: You are a professional. If the printer and the electric company get paid on time, you should too. Can you imagine a lawyer politely sending e-mails after six months of no pay? How about an accountant? Well, you’re a professional just like them, and you provided a service according to contract. If you fulfilled your end of the contract, then the magazine should, too. Don’t be afraid to contact the accounts payable department, send certified letters asking for overdue payment, and, finally, threaten legal action (and go through with it if you need to).

What other rights should be in the Freelance Writer’s Bill of Rights?

Draggin’ Dragon

I promised Ken Broad at Fictional Campfire that I would write a flash fiction story according to one of the pictures he offered last Super Snap.  It’s a little late, but here it is.

Draggin’ Dragon
by Sandra Bell Kirchman 

They tricked me!  I went to the cliff on the night of the full moon, as usual, for my monthly rightful tribute of a delicious young virgin.  Also as usual, there she was, in mouth-watering loveliness…fresh, unspoiled, tender flesh.

And then…I can hardly speak of it…excuse me for a moment.  HE WIPES AWAY A TEAR.  Just as I was reaching for her, she was somehow pulled out of my grasp and one of their damned warriors appeared.  They are always encased in metal, which gets into my teeth and gives me terrible indigestion, so I avoid eating them if possible.

They kept jamming it into my buttocks.

However, this fellow was as annoying as a broken wing vane.  He kept jabbing at me with his spear.   Puny thing, really fit only for a toothpick, but annoying all the same.  If he stuck it in my eye, it could cause me real trouble.

Then…oh, the infamy of it all!  Excuse me again.  HE WIPES AWAY ANOTHER TEAR.  You’d think after 100 years that these…these PEOPLE would just stick to our bargain.  One young virgin a month in exchange for my protection.  I haven’t eaten beef on the hoof for a century.  Think of that, how faithfully I kept to the bargain.

But there these treacherous humans were, jamming one of their flimsy warcrafts into my buttocks!  A dozen or so were poking at me with all manner of sharp instruments.  Methinks in the past hundred years, they have improved their metal, damn their eyes, since these stings almost hurt.  And I certainly was not going to swallow all these flesh in a can.  Terminal indigestion!  But they were trying to provoke me.

As I swung my head around, I could see in the distance another of their abominable warcraft pulling from shore and heading for me with obvious nefarious intent.

So then came the decision.  One has to admire their courage.  If the positions were reversed, I don’t know if I would attack me like that.  One swipe of my tail would take out the first craft and I would then crunch the second craft in two.  Thus the dilemma.  Do I give them one more chance to honor their commitment to me, or do I wipe them out and feast for a month?  What to do? What to do?

I had pretty much decided to give them one more chance.  After all, despite their treachery tonight, they had honoured their commitment for 100 years.  That would be…let me see…twelve hundred fresh young virgins.  And I have to admit, every single one of them was tasty.

So I turned around and gave them a warning bellow.  That’s when their perfidy became vicious.  There was an explosion, lots of smoke and agonizing pain in my right eye.  I bellowed again, this time in distress, swung my head involuntarily and backed away, inadvertently swamping the near warcraft.

 I also accidentally knocked the one fellow off the cliff.  I didn’t even see him splat on the rocks below.  My eye was bleeding and the anguish of the wound overcame me.  Who would have thought these miserable creatures would have developed explosives in a mere century! I am ashamed to say, I fled.

Now I sit in my cave, contemplating the sins of these humans.  I could call on relatives and friends to go and punish these mutineers as they so richly deserve.  But then said friends and relatives might finally find my treasure.  Or I could go myself and risk having my other eye shot out.  HE SHUDDERS.

 Or I could rest for a hundred years and perhaps heal my eye in the process.  It’s been an eon since I’ve had a really good sleep.  HE YAWNS.

Copyright (c) 2011 by Sandra Bell Kirchman
All rights reserved.

Despair

Oatmeal and cornflakes Christmas cookies

"So I make him cookies when my husband is gone..." Image via Wikipedia

Once again, Fantasyfic writer Eric Esteb has written a chilling flash fiction story that still gives me the shivers.  He has kindly offered to let me post it here for him as a guest writer.  Thanks, Eric.

* * *
Despair

by Eric Esteb

Despair is a man who lives on my street.

I believe in being a good neighbor, and my husband is gone on business a lot, and toddlers aren’t the great company you might expect. He seems lonely, when I see him (which isn’t often to be honest) I feel his nature wash over me. It drives the others on the street away, even the local teens, bored and wasted on hormones leave him alone, but it just makes me want to talk to him.

Despair is middle-aged and lives alone. I’ve never seen a woman coming or going, early in the morning when the sprinklers run, and when it’s day time he only ever wears the same ratty looking robe and unkempt, spotty beard. At night he wears an old black suit but the beard stays.

He’s the kind of person you might worry about… you know when you read in the paper about a neighbor noticing a funny smell coming from someone’s garage. Sometimes I worry I’m going to be that person, telling the paper, “I’m as shocked as anybody! I thought he was just quiet, if I had known he was in such a bad way I would have helped!”

So I make him cookies when my husband is gone and leave them on his door step with his paper (which I pull out of his unwatered rose-bush) on the weekends.

Only recently has he started taking them. He leaves the platter on my doorstep when he leaves his house late at night. I seem to be getting through to him, and im happy but there is something else. Something in the pit of my stomach twists, when I drop my son off at day care, or make love to husband or have tea with my girlfriends it’s like a part of me isn’t there any longer.

I don’t know if I’m going to keep making the cookies to leave the man named Despair just a few doors down from mine.

People say cookies are made with love. I know this is going to sound crazy but it’s almost like he’s taking that little bit of myself that gets baked into those little cookies and taking it for himself. What would the reporter from the paper say when someone complains of a bad smell and they get around to asking me why I quit. “It was your cookies keeping him going Debra.”

“It’s what he lived for.”

So I guess I can spare a little more of myself. I want to be a good neighbor.

428 words
Copyright (c) 2011 by Eric Esteb
All rights reserved.