A few weeks ago, a dear friend of mine was lamenting the challenges at her job. She ranted about how difficult it was, how demanding her boss is and how there never seemed to be enough hours in the day to finish her assigned tasks. Empathizing with her plight, I told her I understood her dilemma.
That's when she said: "What do you know about what I'm going through? You're a writer. A freelancer at that. It's not like you have a real job. It's not like you have a boss to answer to."
This wasn’t the first time she’s said that about what I do, and it won’t be the last. It used to bother me, but now I understand my friend has a limited concept of what constitutes a job. To her, a job means you get up, leave home, and go to a physical location where you punch a clock and complete whatever duty your boss assigns.
For many of us, the gig economy is all we have as traditional jobs melt away into low-benefit contractor work.
While it’s true I don't punch a clock and work a “9-to-5,” try staring at a blank computer screen, knowing an editor wants 1,500 to 2,000 words before the end of the day, and you with chronic writer's block. Or maybe you're sick with the flu or COVID, but you have the pressure of a deadline. Then there’s the unspoken obligation that you must give your readers your absolute best each time you pick up your pen or you’ll lose your audience.
So you burn the midnight oil, plow through obstacles and pray the creative muse gives you something—anything—coherent. You do this because you know if you miss your deadline, your bills won’t get paid, and the editor will never call on you again. And God forbid she tells her friends and colleagues in the publishing world you fail to meet deadlines. A deadline-missing reputation is the kiss of death for a freelancer. People who make a mistake on an assembly line building a car share the blame with their fellow workers and the company. With writers, every mistake is yours and yours alone, and a whole lot of people will know about it.
What I do certainly isn't as physically strenuous as the job my great-grandparents had picking cotton, or my stepfather and uncles had hauling pulpwood. But the pressures of writing and producing does take its toll on your body, and it can make you physically tired.
Mathias Pessiglione, a researcher of Pitié-Salpêtrière University in finds “cognitive work results in a true functional alteration—accumulation of noxious substances—so fatigue would indeed be a signal that makes us stop working but for a different purpose: to preserve the integrity of brain functioning.”
This means intense thinking for long periods causes mental fatigue, which can trigger physical fatigue. So, it is possible for millions of Americans working at a desk for eight to 10 hours a day to feel just as tired as someone doing manual labor.
Furthermore, as a freelance writer, I am part of the gig economy, mostly comprised of freelance workers who work side jobs to make ends meet. I’m no different than an Uber driver, Amazon temp worker, or a music producer. Like most gig workers, I have no set hours, but also no job-related insurance, worker compensation, sick leave, or paid vacations. When I get sick or take a break, I don’t get paid.
Also, as a freelancer, I work from gig to gig with absolutely no guarantee of steady work, or that the work offered will even pay. For those like me, it’s either feast or famine; you quickly learn how to save and manage your money, because there is no guarantee your phone will keep ringing.
“So why do it?” you ask. Why throw away the opportunity of a paid vacation or the promise of steady groceries? For many of us, the gig economy is all we have as traditional jobs melt away into low-benefit contractor work. But for some artists our passion doesn’t leave room for any other option. Esteemed writer, Amiri Baraka, wrote in his autobiography, “The Autobiography of Leroi Jones,” that “A writer doesn’t write because they choose to, it’s like breathing. They write because they have to.”
I am a writer, a Black writer at that. It’s not something I do as an occupation; it is who I am as a human being. Like a preacher called to preach the gospel, I am compelled to write the truth, whether I am paid or not. And I refuse to let anyone—friend or foe—say what I do isn’t real work.
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