Why I Abandoned My Blog (and still wrote this post)


I churn out dozens of blog posts each month, mostly under other people’s names. Businesses hire me to get acquainted with the work they do and write about it; every so often, public figures ask me to write the content they don’t have time to piece together. I fell into the ghost-blogging niche by chance, and I love it.

In addition to blog posts, I craft marketing materials and billboard copy, business plans and brochures. I’ve written glossaries and artist statements, case studies and social media captions. And by the end of the day, all I want to do is get out of my head. No more words, I think to myself.

So I pick up my camera. (Here's a photo of a dog from the John Beargrease Sled Dog Marathon. You're welcome.)


Monday through Friday, I write for others. For law firms and hospitals, startups and financial advisors. I still get the odd proofreading or copyediting job. No matter the gig, I find myself buried in language. Bombarded with it.

And I’ve given up on my blog because after a day of writing, the last thing I want to do is write more.

My awareness of this—the trace of burnout in the back of my mind—keeps me energized while I tackle paid work. My clients’ projects deserve my full attention, and if casting my own blog aside is what it takes to stay motivated, then that’s okay.

So I’ve cut back on writing in my spare time. I’ve filled the void with my camera, shooting landscapes and portraits on weekends, casting my computer aside and going out into the world with my Pentax and a bag full of lenses.

Yes, I’ve abandoned my blog—but I’m a better writer for it. A better photographer too.

How I Escaped a Toxic Relationship with Email

In the broadcast industry, communication is key to getting the job done. I was a multimedia journalist fresh out of college, and took pride in my ability to answer emails quickly. Within minutes of receiving a timely message, I would shoot back a reply. In the mornings, when messages flooded my inbox from the night before, I would apologize for not responding sooner.

Although my work hours varied, I never checked my professional email at home.

I was on top of my email. I had it under control.

And then I became a freelance writer.  

The myth of freelancing isn’t all a myth. I have a great deal of control over my schedule. If I want to take a day off in the middle of the week, I’ll spend the following Saturday at my desk. I bring Clive, my black Lab, to the dog park every morning. If I need a break from a grueling project in the afternoon, I’ll hit the gym or a trail. I can always work later to make up for lost time.

That flexibility comes at a price. The less structured my day is, the more I feel compelled to work around the clock. Until recently, I would check my email during every waking hour. I wanted to be available for my clients, many of whom are in Europe or on the West Coast. Different time zones? No problem.

Late one night, I woke up to a thunderstorm and spent the next hour sprawled out in bed with my phone, replying to a work email I’d received. It turned out my client was online too, and we spent the next hour discussing a project while the lightening struck outside.

It was 3 o’clock in the morning.

Professional emails consumed me. I would communicate with clients at the grocery store, at restaurants on special occasions. Once in the dark hallway of a movie theater while a Tom Hanks drama played in the next room. I can tell you which Glacier National Park trails have decent AT&T reception, because I’ve responded to work emails on some of them. I figured that when you work remotely, people tend to think you’re glued to your computer.

I'd convinced myself I needed to be available 24/7.

And I resented it.

Little did I know that I was perpetuating this freelancing myth. No one was forcing me to be responsive at all times — I had put myself in that position. So I decided to leave my toxic relationship with email and start a healthy one. Here’s how I pulled it off:

· I informed my clients that I would check my email sparingly on weekends, if at all.

To be productive, I need to unplug after work hours. Now I only check my email once or twice on weekend days, and rarely respond to messages until Monday. If the request is timely or urgent — or if it’s simple and I’m at my computer anyway — I’ll send a quick reply, and in some cases a reminder that I’ll be available during the workweek if the client needs anything else.

· When I work late, I’ll draft emails that I can send in the morning.

When an idea strikes, or I’ve articulated the perfect reply to an email late at night, I’ll save the message as a draft and send it in the morning. This practice is efficient, and shows clients that I am responsive during work hours in my time zone. Offering a certain degree of flexibility is important, but I no longer feel comfortable putting my sleepless nights on display.

· I am getting over my compulsion to achieve Inbox Zero.

Unplugging for several hours each day is more important to me than achieving Inbox Zero. The term, coined by productivity expert Merlin Mann, refers to the practice of eliminating unread messages from your email. I used to be a big proponent of this, and kept a clutter-free inbox for years.

Eventually, I got overwhelmed and went searching for a new system. I’ve since discovered a happy middle ground where I can check my email periodically throughout the workday. Seeing those red numbers flash on the Mail icon hurts a little bit, but I like to think I’m stronger than my inbox.

My Creative Hobby Taught Me Patience

Clive Autumn.JPG

Until somewhat recently, photography infuriated me. When the situation allowed, I would grab my Pentax DSLR and shoot the lakes of Minnesota, the snow-capped peaks of the Sierras and the Northern Rockies. And nearly every photo I captured turned out lopsided and overexposed, while the places I took the photos were so stunning.

I’m really bad at this, I thought. So I tucked my camera in its case and shoved it into my closet. 

It turns out I wasn’t “bad” at taking pictures — I just had a lot to learn. I still do, but now I have the patience to deal with the curve. My camera didn’t belong in the closet. It wasn’t my camera’s fault that I took mediocre pictures; it was mine, and it was my job to learn to improve.

Fast-forward to a snowstorm in early 2016, when my boyfriend and I adopted a Labrador puppy from our local animal shelter. I dusted off my camera and gave my failed hobby another shot. There was less at stake this time because rather than creating breathtaking pictures, all I wanted was to document my dog’s toothy grin.

And as the saying goes, Practice makes perfect. I brought my camera with me on walks, and before long, my photographs got better. My compositions grew more solid; I learned to manipulate my settings on Manual rather than rely on Automatic. Most importantly, I accepted that not every image would turn out. Both amateurs and pros take more photos than they intend on keeping because most shots are underwhelming. That’s just the way it is.

In short, you can’t get everything right on your first try. Photography, my creative hobby, taught me this. And unsurprisingly, my findings have carried over into my freelance writing business. (Namely, in terms of the patience involved in building a client base and seeing projects through to completion.)

Here are the takeaways:

Immediate follow-ups aren’t the norm — and that’s okay.

As a freelance writer, patience is a critical part of my job. I’ve worked with clients who booked me for the following week, disappeared, and reached out nine months later with their project. This is the nature of the business. It happens, and yet the former reporter in me would follow up with clients much too soon, usually a few too many times, and wonder what could have possibly happened to cause the delay.

Since then, I’ve learned that while we can’t control other people, we can manage our expectations. These clients didn’t “wrong” me in any way, and they didn’t owe me anything. Maybe something disruptive took place in their lives, or maybe the message I sent got lost in their inbox. After college, I was invited to interview for a legal clerk position; unfortunately, I had no idea until I came across the email in my “Junk” folder nine months later. I’m sure the firm was irritated with me about my unresponsiveness, and rightfully so. 

Good work requires hard work.

In the past, I figured that while I was a fine editor, clients would never book me as a writer. The content I put together from scratch sounded forced and awkward; in my opinion, it wasn’t tight enough. Fortunately, I learned to accept that first drafts are supposed to be rough. (Who would have thought?) Few freelance writers — especially those starting out in the business — submit their first drafts to clients and call it a day; they work on the copy until it’s polished. It takes a great deal of practice and patience to restructure a fine project until it’s great, but it’s certainly worth it.

Similarly, when I go out with my camera, I usually take a handful of shots from the same angle before I capture one I like.

Not everything works out.

Not every client is going to love your work, your rates, or your process. Several weeks ago, I got an email from a client who hired me to write a bio for her coaching business. My partner does the same thing for a living, and he says he could have done a better job, she wrote. Naturally, I felt devastated, and focused on her input rather than the thousands upon thousands of positive interactions I’ve had as a freelancer.

And that’s okay.

In turn, there are days when every picture I take is horrendous. And that’s okay too. Because the out-of-focus portrait, and the lush landscape that turned out blue, have taught me a great deal about adversity and perseverance — in business and in life.

Stick to Your Freelance Rates!

One day I woke up to an unexpected message in my inbox.

I’d like to hire you to revise my business plan. I’m from Canada, and as you probably know, our dollar isn’t the strongest right now. Any chance I can pay your rate in Canadian dollars instead of USD?

I pulled up an email template I keep on hand for writing inquiries, customized a few lines, and gently declined the prospect’s business. Requests like this one are hardly out of the ordinary; the man was polite and had every right to ask me what he did. That said, I too had every right to turn down the gig.

This doesn’t happen as often now that I’m more established, but every once in a while people will ask that I consider lowering my rate to accommodate their editorial needs. I list my pricing on my website, and on the other platforms where I feature my freelance writing services, so my rates rarely come as a surprise. And while buyers aren’t necessarily overstepping when they ask me to make an exception, I always wonder why they feel so comfortable asking for a discount in the context of the freelance marketplace. Where do they draw the line? I wonder.

Picture this: A couple walks into a restaurant and approaches the host. “Good evening,” they say. “We’d love to have dinner, but would you please take 20% off the bill at the end of our meal? We just don’t have the budget to eat here. Would you consider helping us out?” 

Probably not.

If you can’t afford something, or if you simply don’t feel like paying up, search for an alternative that better suits your budget. Otherwise, shell out the cash and stick with your decision. We freelancers need to eat too, and discounts can be very expensive for us. But no one is forcing us to offer them.

My first three months as a self-employed writer, I was open to negotiation. In fact, I gave out discounts like candy. This took up a great deal of time, and cost me a lot of money, until a client graciously offered a few tips. I’d been working with him on a lengthy nonfiction manuscript; when I shaved a few hundred dollars off my quote because I needed a longer turnaround (unexpected illness — freelancers seem to get sick at the least convenient times), he couldn’t believe it.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said over the phone. “In fact, you shouldn’t have done it. You need to stand by what you charge.”

For the next hour, we discussed freelance writing, including the importance of adhering to our rates. Here’s what I learned:

Charge what you’re worth — your work isn’t going anywhere.

When I started refusing to offer my services at a reduced rate, most prospects decided to book me anyway. (Most prospects, not all of them — for both buyers and sellers, rejection is part of the deal in the gig economy.) Clients tend to respect freelancers who stand up for themselves and what they’re worth.

Be firm — certainty is a sign of confidence.

Apologies are an admission of liability. You’ve heard the saying. It applies to car accidents, and it’s also relevant in the freelance marketplace. Avoid apologizing for charging what you do — bending over backwards to accommodate an unreasonable request implies that you don’t know what you’re worth. If a client declines to work with you because of your rates, be polite, but do not apologize.

If you choose to offer your services at a discount, consider this approach.

When I receive compelling inquiries, and the client’s budget doesn’t match what I would normally charge, I consider working with them anyway — but only to an extent. You’re a first-time client, and I’m willing to offer a discount for this project only, I write. In the future, though, if you continue working with me, I’ll charge my full rate. In most cases, the client will return with future work and pay my full rate. This is a winning approach I use on a case-by-case basis, when a specific lower-paying client or project appeals to me.  

Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. Freelance writing isn’t a one-size-fits-all industry. I don’t intend to tell others how to run their business; rather, my objective with this article is to share what I wish I’d known when I was starting out. What are your thoughts on this? Do you have any tips worth sharing?

Taking Time Off in the Gig Economy

On March 15, I stepped away from my freelance copywriting and editorial business for a full week. I declined new projects, turned off my computer, and took a non-working vacation for the first time since college. On the plane, rather than yanking down my tray table and tracking changes on a client’s manuscript, I flipped through an old paperback and took a nap at 30,000 feet.

I’d forgotten how good it feels to relax on vacation.

Like many of the 55 million freelancers in the U.S., I quit a high-stress job and figured I’d enjoy a few months of self-employment while I looked for my next gig. Then, when the offers came in, I realized that I enjoyed the freelance lifestyle too much to reenter the traditional workforce.

I appreciate the variety of projects that come my way, and am fortunate to have a band of loyal clients whom I can count on for regular work. The problem, for me, is that without a traditional job, I don’t have access to traditional benefits.

When I go on vacation, I don’t get paid time off. Until recently, I wouldn’t even take time off. During my first year as a full-time freelancer, I accepted every project that was offered to me. I ploughed through last-minute weekend requests, and responded to emails within minutes of receipt. (I used to work as a broadcast reporter, and timely communication was crucial to the station’s success.) For a while, I worked through illness as well — until I discovered the quality of my work suffered with a fever. 

Basically, I worried that I would lose my clients if I turned down projects every now and then. In 2015, I spent Christmas Day editing the rough draft of a Russian political document at my parents’ place. Last year, I flew to San Francisco with five deadlines to meet before my return. I’ve worked multiple 14-hour days to tackle expedited turnarounds, and felt my eyes glaze over at my computer. I’m embarrassed to admit that once, while living in Montana, I brought my laptop with me on a short hike, and polished a nurse’s resume in Glacier National Park.

How could I possibly take time off in the gig economy?

Here’s what I’ve found:

Make small changes.

After a series of seven-day workweeks, I told myself I would start taking weekends off. I informed my clients of the change, and the vast majority of them have been very respectful of my need for downtime. They know I’m more productive after a few days of rest, and give me the space I need to recharge. In putting my foot down, I’ve discovered how much happier I am when I separate work from my personal life.

Keep regular hours.

Admittedly, I have yet to master my schedule. Typically, I work Monday through Friday, from about 7 a.m. to 11 p.m. — with plenty of breaks in between. From walking my Labrador puppy, to preparing meals, I balance a number of tasks with my freelance work. Short breaks help me clear my head, and I welcome them when I’m feeling bogged down with projects. In an ideal world, however, I would work six- to eight-hour days (including communication and billing) with about two 30-minute breaks thrown in.

Set aside money.

Freelance work truly is feast or famine. Some weeks I’m overbooked, while others — about once every three months or so — I have maybe 20 percent of what I normally take on. My workload is cyclical, I’ve learned, and I have to accept the unpredictable nature of freelance writing to succeed in my field. To cope with a dry spell, I have funds stashed away so I can spend slow days unwinding instead of worrying about my finances. (This is easier said than done, of course. I’m inherently frugal, however, and very fortunate to have no debt.)

Ultimately, in the gig economy, success shouldn’t drive freelancers to work more. Rather, it should motivate us to work harder, so we can take more time off and become more productive in the long run. I decided to give this a shot when I disconnected for seven days. This non-working vacation brought to mind the things I love about my job, and reminded me of why work-life balance is so important to gig workers’ well-being.