The little death of the freelance writer
I’m a freelance writer: Until a while ago, that meant that, every once in a while, I met someone who happened to be running an online magazine, I talked to them about some odd libertarian theory of mine, and then they paid me an almost symbolic sum, in exchange for the article. We discussed it with a couple of friends, and then uploaded it. In poverty, everything was jolly and warm. Then, I decided that I’d publish in the websites of people that I didn’t know, I decided that I’d pitch my articles. I tried it, for the first time, and was successful. Then, I tried to reply to my editor’s acceptance e-mail, and committed a grammatical error.
I am awaiting her response, now, but my career is already over, because I’m already dead. Yes. I’m done. It’s over. It never really begun, but in my heart, it was so real.
I’ll pretend that it didn’t happen. I wrote in haste, and my native language is Spanish. Try to speak Spanish! You wouldn’t last a day! It’s hard, it’s slow, it’s littered with obscene bobby-traps. It’s a horrid, bloated, obnoxious language, that, when handled skillfully drips like honey, but it’s so easy to bend it into coarse monstrosities.