Write Write Bang Bang!

On the occasion of the fifth anniversary of my switch to full time freelance writing, I can officially say that the worrying never stops. Today was my first day of not having an assignment in months and, though I had prepared mentally for this day, I found myself thinking, "Is this it? Perhaps I've filed my last story or seen my last accepted pitch."

Today, I kept waiting for the magical email or Facebook message that never came. I checked all my recently completed assignments and assignments to come and stalked all my favorite writing sites, but there was no incredible convergence that resulted in a magical gig landing in front of me.

Until 2:17pm. A project manager offered me an editing gig for the rest of the week. Which is why I really must say right here, right now, that it takes a kind of thick-skinned, roll-with-it, Zen master of a personality to be a freelance writer, and I have learned to pretend to be that kind of person.

It turns out that freelance writing and editing demand a good amount of pretending.

Like pretending to take a picture of my precious son when I'm really photographing something right behind him that I need for a story.

Or saying I spoke to someone who said I could do this or go there or take that--oh, it wasn't you? Then it must have been your boss.

Something I never find the need to lie about, though, is the unglamorous nature of my chosen career. I've filed stories from the dark bathroom of a Tucson Motel 6 and from a video poker parlor at a Virginia truck stop. I've said yes to wild deadlines, like ghostwriting three chapters of a technical book in three days. In fact, the wilder the deadline, the better I seem to perform, that little anxiety pumping down my arms and to my fingertips as I type.

So I'd like to think five years of having my own freelance writing business means I have some kind of proof that I can do this, that it means it's a viable choice for the next five years. But the days of slow work prompt me to wonder about making it for even the next five days.

Then there is the deeper question: Does that little bit of fear keep me hungry? Without the fear perhaps I'd be without the gigs. I'll ruminate on this and let you know what I think on the six year anniversary of my freelance career.

Where the cash goes

You don't write checks in Oaxaca, not for a pair of jeans and not for the electric bill. It's a cash-based economy for the most part. I've gotten used to taking out chunks of change to cover everything from school tuition to the down payment on our house. And, once I have a little cash, it's all too easy to spend. Unlike the United States, which often demands driving somewhere or finding something open at an odd hour, Oaxaca's corners, byways, and pueblos do business around the clock.

First there's the phenomenon of the corner store. This still exists in some U.S. cities, at least in high foot traffic areas, but in Oaxaca it's a staple. There is a miscelanea (a store that sells miscellaneous items) in every neighborhood, and some have multiple. They might sell the junk food and soda you would see at a California corner liquor store, but they also have fresh fruit, veg, ingredients for baking, salsas, fresh pan dulce and the like. The better stocked miscelaneas, though they might be so tight you can hardly turn around in them, have a seemingly limitless stock of any item you wind up needing, such as lip gloss, light bulbs, and party favors.

But shopping in Oaxaca gets even more convenient than walking to the corner. We have various peddlers, vans, and vochos that come by, knocking on our door to sell mountain honey, dried hibiscus blossoms, tejate dough, probiotic drinks, oranges, tortillas, fish, and pan dulce.

My favorite type of convenience shopping is at intersections. Any long red light at a major intersection is an open invitation for vendors to jump into the line of cars and sell stuff through the car windows. The toy of the moment is always on offer, be it a bouncing Sponge Bob doll on a furry pipe cleaner or a wind-up baby chick. Bags of limes, boxing gloves, plastic airplanes, Zapata moustaches, chicklets, roses, and churros wrapped in pink paper--we've gotten them all en route. It gets so, on the way to a party, we'll stop at a favorite intersection to buy a gift, and another to get a food item to bring.

I credit all this street activity to the fact that Oaxacans walk and take public transportation everywhere. Yes, there is un monton de drivers buying items through their car windows, but what supports that corner store culture and the street peddling around the clock is that people get out of their homes and, instead of pushing the garage door opener, they push a stroller or carry their babies and they walk to get their shopping done, vinyl market bag on shoulder and cash in hand.

Abastos with Insiders

This morning, I went with my buddies Liz, Nina, and Miguel to the Central de Abastos. This is the main city market that I've been to many times, but it was only the second time I've been there with a Oaxaquena. And that makes a huge difference. Rather than do the unending circle of the lost white girl, past the shoes then the meat, the shoes and meat (it's like in the movie "European Vacation", when Chevy Chase says, "Look kids, Big Ben. Parliament. Look kids, Big Ben. Parliament" ad infinitum), I had Liz and Miguel to lead us straight to what we needed.

You say you need pinatas. Bam! 50 pesos, man. Candies in bulk for the pinatas? In moments, Nina was hooked up. A little apron for Geni for painting? Here's the section with stall after stall of embroidered aprons ("Too expensive," clicked Liz, making that little slightly disapproving sound with her tongue) for 45 pesos.

Bananas, art tables, free soda samples, mandarinas--everything we needed, we got. But the stumper has always been plates. Liz and I had been two weeks ago, and no one sold plates, just mountains of bowls and cups. Plastic plates, there's a ton of them, but nothing in beautiful ceramic. And then we went to a friend's house and she had these great ceramic plates. Liz jumped on our friend, "Where? How much?" Our friend drew us a map of how to find the stall in Abastos and we set off. Turn left at Shalom furniture store, duck under the tarps, and, yes, there were the plates. Dark blue painted flowers on white ceramic. I was so happy. "How much?" I asked. When the lady said 55 pesos for the big ones and 25 pesos for the little ones, I steeled myself. Liz clicked her tongue. But I jumped in regardless and came home with plates. Steve asked me, "Why didn't you buy more?" but, honestly, I had to risk the wrath of Liz to buy the five I came home with!

And I did get a discount in the end, the other benefit of going to Abastos with a Oaxaquena.

My Crazy Sexy Cool Career

Divining the depths of Craigslist for writing gigs can be a downer of an endeavor, considering that many ads suggest that the writer get paid nothing. Or close to nothing. Of course, I live in the land of low wages. Mexican minimum wage is, I believe, five dollars per day. Most people make more than that, far more than that, but the kids at the tortilleria down the street? Probably 50 pesos for a day's work. Which is about what some of these writing jobs pay--one cent per word, including all research and editing time.

I saw a funny response to one of these low-paying jobs on Craigslist:

IN RE: Horse Racing Article Writer Wanted

---

Reply to: gigs-836217168@craigslist.org ^[?]
Date: 2008-09-10, 11:08PM PDT


So,

You are looking to hire a person with extensive knowledge of horse racing and excellent writing skills. You want to pay $0.01 per word through paypal.

This might become a long term gig.


OK ... lets me get this straight - YOU WANT TO PAY ONE CENT PER WORD.

Since I am a writer, I am terrible at math. Hang on, let me get my calculator...


......


Back ... OK, for a 1000 word article, you are willing to pay $10.00!

You have a deal! Here is my first article:


And the Horse You Rode In On.


Please credit my 7 cents to ... pay_me_you_cheap_bastard@yahoo.com


Please let me know when you are ready for my second article.

The Real September Finally Arrived

I try to have faith in what Steve tells me. For example, when he said freelance gigs slow down in late August and don't pick up until after Labor Day, I decided I could deal with that. But then, when the day after Labor Day came, and the day after, and I wasn't hearing from any of my regular editors nor from any news ones to whom I had pitched articles, I decided, "No, it's not the Labor Day thing. There's a problem here. The economy in the U.S. is down. At least half my clients are in the U.S., and they're not buying right now."

I went on a pitch frenzy, and sent out resumes left and right.

Suddenly, today, I got two new jobs. And then two of my regular editors contacted me. I realized Steve was right. I'm only six months into freelancing full time as opposed to doing it as a supplementary gig, so I haven't lived through the cycles of it yet. I have to remember that freelancing is like chaos theory, so if I can hit an average amount of gigs/money over the course of a month, I needn't worry. Now if I can only tell myself this is January and February, which Steve claims is another tough stretch.

Enough blogging, I have writing to do!

Good times

A couple of great days amid a rather sleep-deprived summer. Yesterday, I got the stitches out of my head. It took two seconds and cost two bucks. Max and I walked to the children's library where he stacked up 20 books in Spanish and read through them all. I felt a little useless, my favorite feeling to have around children. Autonomy!

Max got a chemistry set and Steve was very funny, getting very controlling about it. So I took over and everyone was happier. Max loves holding test tubes over candle flames, watching the substances bubble. Then we played a round of the Mad Magazine game. We'd lost the dice, so we had to hold out fingers on the count of three, add it up, and make our moves. Yeni decided to use her potty, singing "yayayayay" after each visit.

We hit Dr. Manuelita's office for a little pendulum-swinging to determine Yeni's bedtime rebellion. The diagnosis was that something frightened her. We got some natural remedy and Yeni went to bed in 5 minutes. Coincidence?

Today was more experiments, more potty, and a visit to pay the water bill. Mexico's largely a cash economy, so you don't send checks to pay bills. You go to the office and pay. So we braved downtown traffic and double-parked in front of the water bill office to pay our $2.60 bill. And it was right next to a great sock store, so Max y Yeni loaded up on cartoony sox, 12 for $6 on sale.

Still typing with one hand, but getting around better. August is slow for writing jobs so I've decided it's a good month for a writer to break her arm.

Friday: Ocotlan with Leslie, my old Worldview partner-in-crime!

Fast Forward

The house is ready! It is the blue one:

Sometimes it seems like too much happens at once, and life goes by faster than I can write about it. This distresses me, because it means I'm losing the details. But things will settle soon, because we are about to move to our house!

It's finally finished. And buying it was honestly not that difficult, in terms of bureaucracy. I thought we'd taken on a bit too much by working with a realtor who only speaks Spanish, but I quickly learned the key vocabulary words for things like "down payment" and "house title". Our realtor, Luz, marched us into Scotia bank and opened an account for us, a feat I'd heard was near impossible for expatriates on tourist visas.

We are now learning about buying furniture and trying to get water service and waiting for deliveries that arrive when they arrive. But the house! Here is the inner courtyard:

Here is the hallway, someday to be filled with art, when we learn how to hang things on concrete: Here is the yellow living room, empty save for a piece of furniture we bought off the street. Our Oaxaqueno friends warned us not to buy the furniture that's carted around on dollies in neighborhoods all over the city. The wood is young and not dry, and thus shrinks and changes. But the furniture itself is lovely and quirky and the kind of piece that would cost so much in the United States. And we bought it a block from the house, in the middle of the street!

Someday, the rooftop garden-to-be:

I think I can even handle haggling the moving price with the guys that drive the "Transportes de Carga Ligera" trucks all over town.

Mi "Casa"

Yes, here it is. Lovely Carrie McNinch sent us a photograph she took of our house. It takes a lot of imagination to think this will be done in a month. I promise glossy beautiful photos soon!

The house is cool, plain, and modern, so basically a blank slate. We will of course cram our tons of artwork and altars in there, but what next? Not owning anything means I have to buy (cheap) things quickly, and it would be nice if they had some sort of style, I guess.

So I looked at online decorating sites. This was just a terrible thing. Never in my life have I owned matching items. It seems silly to coordinate your bedspread with your drapes! I've always benefitted from the hand-me-down, junk pile, random acquisition, gift method of decorating, so this is new territory.

Then I vaguely remembered a doctor's waiting room in Portland. I had read an issue of Domino magazine there, and I recalled it as less matchy-matchy. Perhaps I'd get some ideas. This house was interesting. No fancy curtains or chic little tables, and lots of brightness and patterns. But still, it seemed too clean and planned. What was I looking for?

I stumbled around and found a blog called decor8. She's very gung ho about a style she promotes as Boho Modern. This is an improvement--lots of crap stacked on things, paintings up against the wall. It is a little more realistic. And the emphasis is on mixing things up, not putting it all together. Some of her commenters, however, did not find it so charming, and called it Crack House Chic. Is this what we've come to? I guess you could go for the cleaned-up version, called neo-Shabby Chic (look how much I'm learning!), but that looks expensive and uncomfortable to me.

As time wears on, I see what I'm a sucker for. The words "flea market", "swap meet", and, the biggie, "junk". But some of this flea market decorating seems to take beautiful old things and attempt to make it into generic new things. I'm not trying to make my crummy old stuff look like Pottery Barn. So not an improvement, in my book.

So, I'll keep searching. Some possibilities: cottage style? beach house style? rustic? eclectic (shudder...but it's probably what I'd be labeled)? retro? Or I'll give up and just let the crap fill up all the corners and make up a name for it. Broken Toy Bohemian. Pile of Papers Nouveau. Mouse Cage on Television Totem. Socks.

Karma Chameleon

I just finished watching Ray Reyes of Menudo fame covering Boy George's "Karma Chameleon", and I have to say, go man! What a supreme cutie.

And those lyrics hit home: "Every day is like survival..." I've been up nights obsessing over house/money, money/house and then stopping myself because who cares?

Today set my teeth on edge. I called Bank of America to initiate the international wire transfer. I knew about the $35 fee, but it was too good to be true that it would end there. They quoted me an exchange rate that had me paying them another $1500 commission. Just to get my money. I banned Steve from even discussing this dismal development, because it compelled me to eat an entire tube of Chokis, the delicious chocolate chocolate chip cookies we scored last weekend.

I do love Chokis.

I am a split personality on this money thing. I am quite possibly the most careful, nitpicky person in the world about finances and spending. But the other side of me says that, at some point, you have to let go, or else you're making money your ruler. My dad the commie has always said that his childhood dream was to be like Scrooge McDuck in the old cartoons, sitting amongst stacks of gold coins. I sympathize.

Then I received a fortuitous email this afternoon. I just landed an excellent six-month writing contract. And the editor picked up every one of my 12 pitches (I had been worried I'd gone a little pitch-happy, but thankfully no). So maybe the Karma Chameleon smiles at me now, saying that what Bank of America steals from me I can compensate for. Still...that bloody bank!

White Knuckles in Oaxaca

I like to obsess about money. Before we moved here, I made all sorts of charts and plans about how we could manage to get by in Oaxaca, on less income, but less expenses as well. Part of the equation involved us living off our interest without touching our principal.

Well, thank goodness that wasn't the entire equation. The U.S. economy is in the toilet, and our interest--which was supposed to generate us about $1800 per month on which to live--has dwindled to $1100 per month, and probably heading down fast.

The Fed meets Tuesday, and I can only imagine what might happen after that. The crumbling economy is a scary thing to ponder.

But this experience is teaching me to be more like Steve. He's had his own businesses for his whole adult life, and has learned to count on the ebb and flow of freelance dollars. I never understood it before, how you could depend on the unfathomable and unpredictable (it sounded like chaos theory), but now I see that what seemed like the most predictable thing--savings with interest--is far less steady than getting an influx of creative gigs. So, I got two more freelance writing gigs this week. I never saw this coming, becoming a freelance writer and, more significantly, depending upon being a freelance writer. It's a little like riding a roller coaster, fun and scary at the same time.

I must say that suddenly it also seems imperative that we buy a house here, to get rid of some of our increasingly worthless dollars and have a fixed asset. When will this craziness end? Or, when will I stop caring so much about it?

How to get to Yagul

Yagul is a rather remote, less-visited archaeological site that is on the road to Mitla, which is a more major site. To get to Yagul, you take a MITLA bus from the second-class bus station, by the Mercado de Abastos. You ask the driver to let you off at Yagul, and then you climb up the mountain to the ruins, about 1.3 miles.

That's one way to get to Yagul, and how I did it 10 years ago. Another way is to wait forever for the bus and decide to rent a car and drive there, which is what Steve and Max did today, to my chagrin, because the car rental negated the money we were earning for getting the photographs.

But Steve tells me Yagul is as dramatically beautiful and eerie as ever. There is a labyrinth in the center, and the mammoth cliffsides around, all seeming to have faces and skulls carved into their recesses.

Just because you wear a sexy bikini doesn't mean you don't have gas

Genevieve had a fever, so we took our first foray into the Mexican health system. That's right, a visit to Farmacia Similares, also known in these parts as "Dr. Simi", a chain of pharmacies with doctors on staff who will do instant consulations.

It was Sunday afternoon when we circumnavigated the giant inflatable doctor and arrived at the closed door of the pharmacy. "Why did I think it would be open?" I asked Steve, and then decided to ask at the drug counter if there were any doctors on staff. The women told me to knock at the door and wait.

A few minutes later, Dr. Simi (really Mario) popped his head out and invited us in. He interviewed me extensively--using far too many irregular verbs and indirect objects--about Genevieve's symptoms and then went into rapid-fire explanation about what he was going to do if I could only, unblame him please, wait five minutes, unblame him, while he ran over to the store.

While we cooled our heels, I inspected the room and found an interesting framed certificate on the wall. "Steve, our doctor is licensed to kill cockroaches, fleas, flies, and mosquitos." Alas, it wasn't so--the room had recently been fumigated and received a certificate of approval.

But Steve was otherwise absorbed with the Dr. Simi advertisement hanging from the ceiling. It was a cardboard mobile of a sexy bikini lady sitting next to an inflatable Dr. Simi. In the corner was a small box of medicine for indigestion. "This," decided Steve, "was the low point of her career."

Dr. Simi came back with batteries for the ear inspection tool and spent a long time peering into screaming Jenny's ears, checking her pulse, listening to her breathe (and scream), taking her temperature, all the while asking about her sleeping, eating, drinking.

In the end, he wrote two pages about Jenny's little cold and reviewed the information with me. He jotted down his home number in case Jenny got sick during the night and I wanted him to pop by. He warned me, though, that his mom might answer the phone, but that she would be sure to give him any messages.

Then we paid him the 25 pesos ($2.50) for the visit. We love you, Dr. Simi!

We sold the house, and nearly everything in it. We are reducing our lives to checkable luggage, USPS M-bags for books, and 10 boxes to ship to Oaxaca.

Sometimes I wonder if Steve and I are just too similar, egging each other on to greater and greater adventures, with no one to check us. It's not the worst thing, I guess.

Today was our 10th yard sale, tomorrow our 11th. Then, we cart stuff away and sell the car that carted it.

I have a lot I could worry about, like how I still haven't received my renewed passport, so we can't finish our residency applications at the Mexican consulate. And how Genevieve, having finally begun walking at 21 months, has now been targeted for speech therapy (but does say uh-oh, wow, look, dat, mama, dada, mimi, bubba, woof, hello, uh uh, no, and vroom to distraction). And how my Oaxacan teaching job I was semi-offered is seeming more and more semi rather than offered.

But I turn 40 tomorrow, which means I transcend much of these piddling concerns because I'm tougher and more free! I have glittery lavender toenails, am writing a movie, and ate Peruvian tapas for dinner. There is no need to stay up wondering about the highest interest rates on savings accounts and finding a charming rental in San Felipe del Agua...

I'm it...

I got tagged by Dishy Duds, and here's what I now must do:

1. Someone tags you.
2. You post five things about yourself that you haven’t already mentioned on your blog.
3. You tag people you’d like to know more about.

Here's the five things:
1. I have deep phone phobia.
2. I am an Ecstatic fanatic! I have been doing the Ecstactic Dance thing (though I stop short of writhing on the floor or going nudie).
3. I am a big eater, and I haunt Extra MSG.
4. I obsess about money.
5. My favorite scene in any movie is when people walk into an unfurnished room, and it's crystalline shining empty gorgeous. I always think that's the life I want.

I tag:
Steve
Clara
Ben

How to Put on a Show for Under $20

Here's a reason to love Portland. The wonderful Brenda of Tour de Crepes gave us her space for an evening show. I built a couple altars, put up a theme exhibit of shrines, and got the flyer-making machine rolling. I feel so very fortunate to have friends such as Meggie (the wild violinist), Jennifer (super crafty concocter of sugar skulls), Steve (on dreams & politics), David (poet), and, of course, The StageSlingers (ShaSha, Ciji, Susan & Me) who rocked the house!

Portland makes things possible. I remember when Jenny put up a show in Oakland, it cost her so much money just to rent the space. And scoring the space was a whole other production. Living here, I realize there's just no need for all that hype and fuss (even though sometimes what I miss most is the hype and fuss).

I got up in front of everyone and spoke, and it was as if I was hearing Jenny. I was always the words behind someone else's voice, but there I was voice and all. It made me miss her, but it made me proud of all she had done, who she was, and where she was going. The month before she had died, she had filled the Climate Theater in SF's SOMA. She had them. The memory burns me because I want what was going to happen next to happen, but it inspires me because there she was, self-actualized.

So I did the show, advertised on a 5-cent pile of cardstock recycled from SCRAP, with special-effect lighting provided by ten dollars worth of saint candles. Half the show's budget went to candles, which may explain why there was a small fire on an altar during the last piece of the show.