Freelancer’s Blues

It isn’t easy being a freelance arts writer. While I’m fully aware there are worse jobs to have (I previously worked in a call centre, a hotel and in retail, uggghhh) there are a few issues with this bizarre occupation.

Firstly, some publications insist that they will pay you, only to renege at the last minute. I can’t imagine anyone doing that to a plumber, doctor or carpenter. We’re skilled too, but the arts are often dismissed as a luxury, not necessity. So why reduce us to volunteers?

Secondly, few people know what we even do. Reaction videos and various online spaces have rendered print issues pretty scarce. Obviously, I like blogging as much as everyone else: it does democratize the process, meaning more voices can be found. But so many critics can’t justify why a piece of art, book, album or play works, and that rather negates the purpose of criticism itself. Don’t throw adjectives at something without unpacking the reason for their usage.

I love the arts. They really did save my life as a working class woman. But sometimes, my imposter syndrome gets the better of me, and I wonder, when so many venues and publications are closing, how we’re going to survive and not become obsolete, the human equivalent of Betamax . For goodness’ sake, pay your writers. We count too.