Monday, December 9, 2013

BYOJ

Okay, so my husband supports me--sue me. Still, I have always worked at something, and since moving to Maine have tried a myriad of ventures leading nowhere fast. Since I won't sell lobsters or paintings of rowboats nestled against a dock with the sun setting behind them and some pine trees off in the distance for a living, I still seek employment. I do this daily. Lately things have gone from bad to worse, owing to the nature of the economy I guess, but also because this little corner of the world, while peaceful and scenic, has no idea what professionalism requires. They must have been out that day.

My tales from the front continue to be appalling. Fishing for work about a month ago I landed a good one, writing for a local entertainment magazine. I applied, they said come for an interview. I went; they hired me. I wrote a few things. After about a week, the managing editor who had hired me and given me a few writing assignments was fired. She let me know, and gave me the email address of another staff person who was filling in for her. I wrote. He never answered. I wrote again. He never answered. Then I wrote to the publisher, who never answered. I slunk off, unpaid.

This reminded me of the job I accepted at the local paper that paid me $20 for a weekly column and photos. I got lots of praise--well, some praise, twice--but when I asked for more money (hey, gas is expensive) the publisher said take a hike. And the job interview at the glossy, over-designed city magazine where I arrived on time and found the building locked up tight and nobody answered the phones, ever. And the many jobs I have applied for since then that never got any answer at all. And the one last week where the guy hired me, but then I did some research and found Internet complaints about him from scads of other writers saying he never pays and to watch out.

So if you're a writer moving to Maine, bring your own job.


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