Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded: A Decade of Whatever, 1998-2008

by John Scalzi

  Admittedly, mine is an extreme example; I don’t think very many writers want to live where I live, which, as I like to say, is so far away from everything that the nearest McDonald’s is eleven miles away. At the same time, between the bucolic splendor of the Scalzi Compound and the insanity that is the Manhattan real estate market is rather a lot of America, most of it quite tolerable to live in, and almost all of it vastly cheaper than the cities of NYC/LA/SF.

  But, I hear you cry, I need to live in New York/LA/San Francisco because that’s where all the work is. To which I say: Meh. I will tell you a story. From 1996 through early 2001, I lived outside Washington DC, which was a great place for writing work, because I had a lot of clients in the area for consulting work, and I could fly up to New York quickly for meetings and whatnot. But then my wife decided that we needed to move to Ohio so our daughter could be closer to my wife’s family. I agreed, but I warned her that the move was likely to compromise my ability to get work. She understood and we moved. And two weeks after I moved, all my clients called and said, more or less “so, you’re moved in now? You can get back to work now?” and started sending me work. Nothing had changed.

  Now, maybe that’s a testament to how awesome I am, but all ego aside, I think it’s rather more to the point that thanks to the miracle of the Internet and such, it just doesn’t matter where people are. Look, we live in an era where people working in adjoining cubicles IM each other rather than exercise their vocal cords. Leaving aside the interesting pathology of this fact, IMing someone half a continent away feels no different than IMing someone ten feet away. Distance hardly mattered when I was doing my consulting work, and now that I’m mostly writing books, it matters even less.

  Don’t get me wrong: I love LA, and San Francisco, and New York. They are some of my favorite places. I’m always excited to have an excuse to visit. But we’re talking about money here. Your money—of which you will have little enough as it is—will go further almost every other place in the United States than these three cities. Your living space will be cheaper and more expansive. You will have more money for bills and to draw down debt. You will have more money to save. It will cost you less to do just about everything. People don’t realize this when they are in thrall to NYC/LA/SF, but once they leave, as if people coming out of hypnotism, they shake their heads and wonder what they were thinking.

  Think about it this way: once you’re hugely successful, you can always go back. And now that the housing bubble is popping, it might even be cheaper then! Go, recession, go! But until then, find someplace nice that you like and feel you can do productive work in, and try living there instead.

  9. Know the entire writing market and place value on your own work.

  A few years ago I was at a science fiction convention, on a panel about making money as a writer, and one of the panelists said something I found absolutely appalling, which was: “I will write anything for three cents a word.” This was followed up by something I found even more appalling, which was that most of the other panelists were nodding in agreement.

  I was appalled not by the fellow’s work ethic, which I heartily endorse (I, too, will write pretty much anything, although not for that quoted rate), but by the fact that he and most of the other folks on the panel seemed to think three cents a word was somehow an acceptable rate. It’s really not; in a word, it is (yes) appalling. The problem was, this very talented writer, and the others on the panel, had largely confined themselves to the science fiction writing markets (and other related markets), in which the major outlets pay the grand sum of six to nine cents a word, and in which three cents a word is considered a “pro” rate.

  Well, not to be an ass about this, but this pro doesn’t consider it a pro rate; this pro won’t even roll out of bed for less than twenty cents a word. Anything below that rate and it becomes distinctly not worth my time; if I do it, it’s because it has some other value for me other than money (i.e., mostly because I find it amusing or interesting in some way). I can have this snooty attitude not because I’m so damn good, but because I know that out in the real world, I can get 20 cents a word (and usually more—20 cents a word is the lower bound for me) writing other sorts of things for other markets, and so can many other writers with anything approaching a competent work record. To be sure, this can often mean doing writing that’s not typically described as “fun”—things like marketing pieces or Web site FAQ text or technical writing. But this sort of writing can pay well, expand your repertoire of work experience and (paradoxically) allow you the wherewithal to take on the sort of stuff that doesn’t pay well but is fun to do or is otherwise interesting to you.

  There is nothing wrong with writing as a sideline and not worrying overly much about payment. But, if writing is something you want to do full-time, it needs to be something you can do full-time; that means finding ways to make it pay and be worth the time and energy you put in it. Part of that is understanding the entire universe of writing opportunities available to you, not just the ones that appeal to you (a Writer’s Market is a good place to start). Part of it is understanding that getting that writing gig that is dead boring but pays off the electric bill is in its way as valuable as selling that short story, or humor piece, or music review, all of which will pay crap but which you enjoy.

  Be willing and ready to write anything—but make sure that you’re making the attempt to make more than three cents a word off it. Because I will tell you this: If you only value your work to that amount, that’s the amount you’re going to find yourself getting paid. Over and over again.

  This brings us to our final point today:

  10. Writing is a business. Act like it.

  Every writer who writes for pay is running a small business. You have to create product, track inventory, bid on work, negotiate contracts, pay creditors, make sure you get paid and deal with taxes. Work has to be done on time and to specification. Your business reputation will help you get work—or will make sure you don’t get any more. This is your job. This is your business.

  If you don’t mind your own business then others will do it for you—and make no mistake that you will lose out, not because the people you are working with are evil or shifty, but simply because they are approaching their end like it is a business and will naturally take anything you leave on the table. That’s business. That’s how business works.

  Lots of writers miss this, or ignore it, or try to pretend that it’s different than this. Lots of writers assume or just want to believe that the only thing they have to do is write, and the rest of the stuff will take care of itself. It won’t, and it doesn’t. This is why so many writers find themselves in financial trouble: they don’t have enough money because they valued their work too cheaply, or they weren’t wise with the money they received, or they lost track of the money they were owed.

  If you can’t or won’t approach writing as a business, then think about doing something else with your time. Stick with the day job as your main source of income and think about writing as a hobby or side gig. There is nothing wrong with this. Some of the best writers did their work “on the side”—as recreation away from their primary profession. Writing part-time does not lessen the work; the work is its own thing.

  But if you are going to try to write as a serious profession, primary or otherwise, treat it seriously. As a writer, you’re going to make little enough as is; why give any away through negligence or lack of focus? That’s just silly. But it really is up to you. This is your work, your money, and your business. Respect the first two by paying attention to the third.

  WHEN STUPID PEOPLE

  DO STUPID THINGS,

  AND THEN DO EVEN

  STUPIDER THINGS

  Josh Marshall hauls up the story of Florida state legislator Bob Allen, who was recently arrested for soliciting sex in a public restroom; specifically it’s alleged that he offered an undercover cop a Jackson if he’d let the legislator blow him. This was not a smart thing to do. But having been cau
ght doing something stupid, Allen, who is a pudgy white fellow, has decided to double down on his stupidity by offering what is a truly, spectacularly—indeed, magnificently—dumb reason for soliciting another man for sex: Fear of a Black Planet!

  “This was a pretty stocky black guy, and there was nothing but other black guys around in the park,” said Allen, according to this article in the Orlando Sentinel. Allen went on to say he was afraid of becoming a “statistic.”

  Now, if you go to either Josh’s site or the Sentinel article, you’ll see that according to the officer (who, incidentally, was not there originally to entrap pudgy white state legislators in public restrooms, but was instead staking out a burglar at a nearby condo), it was Allen who initiated the contact. So let’s think Allen’s rationale through:

  Allen, during the middle of the work day, was at the park, just minding his own business, enjoying the Florida sunshine or whatever, like you do, when he suddenly noticed that the park was full of black men. Fearing for his own personal safety, he decided that the best course of action was to go into the public restroom, peer over a stall—twice—to locate a black man, and offer that black man $20 and a blow job if he’d just leave him alone.

  Which leads me to ask: What, is this like a Florida thing? For generations, have the white men of Florida pulled aside their sons and passed along the secret knowledge that the best way to avoid racial conflict with a black man is to offer him pizza money and a hummer? Is this part of a whole slate of intergenerational Floridian white man knowledge, up there with how to wrassle a gator and the best way to get James Baker to handle your recount? Clearly this all needs to be bound up in a book:Everything I Ever Needed To Know About Being a White Man in Florida I Learned in a City Park Bathroom Stall. I, for one, breathlessly await its publication.

  What I find rather interesting is that Allen must believe, in some dim fashion, that people will actually buy this, and more than buy this, agree with it, which is to say that Allen believes that the average Floridan would think to himself or herself, “why, yes, when confronted with a park full of black men, a white man turning himself into some sort of ATM/suction device combo is an entirely rational response.” Now, I fully admit to not being an expert on Floridians, so maybe this does make sense to them. You hear so many strange things about Florida; Hell, it’s got its own tag on Fark, for crying out loud.

  Having said that, I would like to believe that the vast majority of Floridians see this for what it almost certainly is: idiotic nonsense. The only real bit of news out of all of this is that Allen would rather be seen as a terrified racist than as someone willing to solicit strangers in a public restroom to get some man-on-man action. Well, here’s the thing, Mr. Allen: Clearly, you can be both. There’s a statistic for you.

  ADORABLE

  LITTLE PUNKS

  Krissy and I went out last night and were surrounded for five hours by a variety of adorable little punks. We went to the Offspring concert, a band which we had assumed was enjoyed by folks near our own age. Boy, were we wrong. The average age was below that of a driver’s permit; when we came out of the concert (before the encore—yep, we’re adults), a line of idling minivans filled with parents went past the arena and stretched out the back. You would have thought we were at a Backstreet Boys concert, except for all the Offspring T-Shirts with the words “Stupid Dumbshit Goddamn Motherfucker” on them (it’s a refrain from one of their most popular songs, in case you were wondering).

  Which also brought home how young this crowd was: They were so young they didn’t realize it was hopelessly uncool to wear the t-shirt of the band you were there to see. But what are you going to do. There’s no Punk Etiquette Master at the door. I’m sorry, sir, you can’t come in here wearing that t-shirt. You can rent a TSOL t-shirt for the evening. Or perhaps something in a Hüsker Dü?

  The winsome little punks (what to call them? Punkettes? Mini-punks? Punkies? After much deliberation, Krissy and I decided on “Punklets”) also made for both the largest and most polite punk mob I’d ever seen. The Offspring concert was general admission, and all the kids gravitated towards the floor, thus creating defined strata of age in the seats; the higher up you went, the older the crowd was (until you got to the highest seats, which were populated exclusively by pot smokers of all ages). The mass of youth on the floor was excited and bubbly. Hey, guys, let’s crowd surf!

  And up would go all these 14-year-old bodies, long before music would actually start playing. The crowd surfers would eventually get dumped into the Security line at the front of the stage; the Security dudes, confident in their ability to handle 85-pound 7th graders, would simply pluck the surfers from the crowd, right them on their feet, and send them on their merry way. It was cute. When mosh pits formed, the giggly teens just sort of lightly slammed into each others, a bumper car ride without the bumper cars. You can just see some English punk from 1977 viewing the pits, thinking, Right then, time to show them how it’s done, and pinwheeling in there to do actual damage. No one was injured last night. Bruises would clash with their makeup in school the next day.

  I’m not running down the punklets. It would be hypocritical for me to do so. It’s not like I was a true punk in my teenage years (When I was 14, I was listening to Journey! And it rocked! Don’t Stop Believin’, man!). While I’d debate the wisdom of having Offspring be a concert for the training wheels set (the woman in front of us brought her four-year-old to the concert, though I don’t know that she could be pictured as representative of parents in general, since she wore a t-shirt that said “Industrial Body Piercings” and had a hoop through her lip), certainly better the Offspring than, say, Matchbox 20 or 98 Degrees.

  The kids were all right; in fact they were having a ball. There is a certain amount of irony in having all these dewey-eyed youngsters listening to the music of angst and alienation and then happily trundling back to mom’s SUV for the ride home, though the irony would be lost on this crowd. But then, I suppose there’s irony in the fact I was listening to music of angst and alienation, and I have a mortgage. So the kids and I are even. An ironic time was had by all.

  THE PROBLEM

  WITH PARENTS

  Those of you who come here often know that I’m no fan of the more obnoxious elements of the “childfree” community, and indeed positively delight in their snitty impotent rage at small children and the people who breed them. That being said, I will give the childfree folks credit for harping on one very important truth, which is that becoming a parent often turns people in assholes.

  Which is to say: They weren’t assholes before (or maybe they were and either they hid it well or were in such a way that they were generally indistinguishable from other non-child-bearing people), but later, in the performance of their child-raising duties, they somehow became sphincterfied. In other words, they’re not assholes who happen to be parents, they are assholes because they are parents. Simply put, there are a lot of asshole parents out there, and if their numbers are not growing, then they at the very least drawing more attention to themselves.

  I say this in the wake of reading the cover stories of last week’s Time and Newsweek magazines: Time’s cover story was on how obnoxious parents are making it difficult for teachers to teach, on account that they go ballistic every time junior comes home with a “B” instead of an “A”; Newsweek’s piece was how today’s mothers feel suffocated by “The Myth of the Perfect Mother”—the idea that they can be great moms and great at work and great spouses and, oh I don’t know, great at origami, too. Naturally, living up to this expectation is no fun and a lot of women are running around ragged and irritable at the end of the day, and secretly (but not so secretly they they didn’t confide it to the author of this Newsweek article) enjoy childrearing about as much as they enjoy any other dreary household chore. And naturally they feel guilty about that. In the case of the Time parents, they really are assholes; in the case of the Newsweek mothers, they’re worried they are assholes if they’re not perfect, and making all
the effort required to be perfect is likely to make them a bit of an asshole.

  I’m an asshole, and I’m also parent, although I try not to be former because of the latter. Be that as it may, I feel I’m qualified to comment on both topics. So let me forward one theory of mine, which, while not the complete answer, is at least part of it.

  This is the era of the Gen-X parent, and if we know anything about the Gen-X stereotype, it’s that this cohort of Americans was shaped by Atari, Star Wars action figures, and divorce, divorce, divorce, divorce. Thereby, I suspect that many observers might say Gen-X parents are fueled by a desire to do a better job at parenting than their parents, and yet, given what a botched job their parents made of it, feel like they have no positive role models and/or ideas on how to go about being a good parent. So they overcompensate in their neurotically smothering way. If this essay were a Gen-X movie, this would be the part where a goateed Ethan Hawke would explain, between unfiltered cigarette puffs, how he and all his friends were raised by Bill Cosby and Meredith Baxter Birney on Thursday nights far more than their own fathers.

  As attractive as this is as an excuse, it’s a pretty crappy excuse, and I don’t know if it’s on point. For one thing, the majority of the Gen-X cohort is now on the far side of 30, and the unwritten rule is if you’re over 30 and still blaming your parents for, well, anything, you need to be taken aside and told quietly to get a life (you get a pass if your parents are still actively trying to screw with your life, but honestly, that takes more effort than most senior citizens are going to make). Yes, yes, it’s awful you were in the middle of that horrible divorce. Here’s a hug. Now move on. And point of fact, most Gen-Xers have moved on, settled their issues with mom and dad, and I doubt are actively taking these dormant issues out on their kids thereby.