Some publications are so hungry for content they’ll publish anything – even content that ultimately hurts their readers. This is really no different from running ads (and accepting money from) companies that engage in questionable business practices or companies that do not serve writers in a positive way.
This Week:
Recently, I described a bit about my own freelance writing for genealogy and family history magazines. In this article, I’ll expand the discussion: I’ll explain how you can break into this market, too – and where you might do so…
“You’re famous!” I had to smile at my nine year old grandson’s conclusion.
We had been looking at a scrapbook I’d put together containing newspaper interviews and press releases for my recent book, When Canada Joined Cape Breton. In reality I’m far from famous but some amazing things have happened since the morning a few years ago when I told myself, “I’ll never know until I try.”
Two weeks ago I got to drink a nasty orange concoction and then have my blood tested. Last week, the results were in and I was told I’m borderline diabetic. I was pretty discouraged by that news and was ordered to cut way back on sugar and carbs for the remainder of the pregnancy (lots of protein and veggies, brown rice instead of white, that sort of thing).
This Week:
My contribution to the debate over whether to charge clients flat fees or hourly rates is: Do both – at the same time.
Is there a guide of what to charge for second rights? One-time use? I’ve been told that one should try to get half of the first print, but honestly who can afford $1000 for a story on counter top surfaces?
I’m not sure how to explain the appeal of searching for documents and details about one’s ancestors, but it seems undeniable that the pull is there. I’ve fallen into the “hobby” of family history research, myself (starting with a first visit to the National Archives during a trip to Washington when I was a teenager), and I’m certainly not alone.
Unfortunately, we had to take a surprise trip to the emergency room last Thursday night. No, it wasn’t for one of the children. It was me.
