Media clones

I was reading investigative journalist Nick Davies' blog last night - he was musing about Keith Waterhouse, who died a couple of days ago. Waterhouse was a legend and a true old-style Fleet Street hack, as well as a fabulous writer.

Anyway, Davies reckons no one would offer Waterhouse a job today if he was fresh out of school.

"The sad death of the legendary Keith Waterhouse, has rightfully, attracted many plaudits in national newspapers. Reflections on his life....left school with no qualifications.....fond of the odd tipple or three.....a true original...etc. etc. Yet is it not ironical, that if a similar young Keith Waterhouse presented himself to a newspaper today, he'd very quickly be shown the door. No qualifications?...most newspapers today desire only graduate clones in grey suits, keep your heads down and don't rock the boat if you want to survive"

I'd be in the same boat. I left school at 16, the day I sat my last O. I was a scruffy, mouthy punk and I dyed my hair grass-green the next morning, which prompted my eviction from the family abode. Nevertheless, within a week I had somewhere to live (after borrowing a friend's sofa for a few days) and a job - I walked off the street and into the offices of a weekly magazine and walked out an hour later as their newest music critic.

Two local papers had already rejected me because of the green hair, the black eye make-up and my unique dress sense. I didn't mind too much as I didn't really want to be a reporter anyway, I wanted to write about music and that probably wasn't going to happen on a mainstream daily. But, infuriatingly, neither paper had looked at my writing to see if I had any talent. The mag that took me on looked beyond my appearance and asked to see my work - at that stage, a handful of ranty columns and reviews in a punk fanzine. I think they were also impressed with my enormous chutzpah (but probably not the equally big ego I was schlepping around with me back then).

A lot of really great hacks who were or are my contemporaries (and who have been infinitely more successful and famous than I) would also not have got a job in today's corporate climate. Julie Burchill and Steven Wells are two that spring immediately to mind. I somehow can't picture either of them doing a journalism degree followed by weeks of unpaid work experience in the hope it might lead to a job.

The industry is going through massive upheavals right now as it struggles to reposition itself in a digital world with new business models. It would be sad if, as part of that process, the hirers continue to look only for Davies' "graduate clones".

Flattery, ignorance

First, flattery. So there I was on Twitter a week or so ago following various conversations, one of which asked people to plug a certain teenage journo. Normally, I wouldn't, but I was the same age (16) when starting out and had the same hunger. It struck a chord, so I did the RTdecent thing and retweeted something this person had written.

I was rather flattered some days later to see that said teen hack had plugged me on Mr Tweet, and described me as "amazing, sharp, humorous, the best journalist there is". I'm paraphrasing, obviously but I did enjoy the ego-stroke. It almost convinced me I should have taken on Julie Burchill, after all.

So it was with some disappointment that I discovered, some days after the announcement of the 2009 Manchester Blog Awards, that I'm probably not among the (currently) 120+ nominations for the simple reason that I'm not yet listed on the blog roll at The Manchizzle, not this one or the other one. Or indeed any of the other ones. An oversight or several that I'm hastily trying to correct.

Never mind. I have survived long enough without gongs. I'm happy to have fans of a tender 16 years, which probably counts for a lot more.

But a nomination would be nice. HINT HINT...

Vocabularly 101

I stumbled across an interesting blog post today, courtesy of Twitter, and it spoke to my heart.

30 Words You Need to Stop Using was a great summary of corporate jargon that should be banned (actually, it was today's update of another 30 words that I discovered - 30 more words that are equally valid for banning). In a previous lifejob on the Dark Side (aka doing PR for a charity) I was in a constant battle with my bosses and the charity's board when it came to vocabulary. One of the charity's veeps took it upon herself to "approve" any official blah I produced. As I was on a mission to cut jargon and use words that ordinary people could understand (based on the KISS principle), I often felt like resigning when my carefully crafted drafts were returned and simple words such as "use" were scored through and replaced with "utilise".

Those were the days when I really felt like banging my head on the desk or the wall because that would clearly have been a more productive use of my time. When I first arrived at the charity, all the corporate blah had clearly been produced with the board in mind, not the end-users (apologies for that one, I do hate that phrase!). And so, when the board agreed - finally - that our blah needed to be aimed at the people we were supposedly helping, I was overjoyed. Until the veep rewrote everything in my new draft and we ended up with an almost identical version to the blah we were supposed to be ditching.

But I digress.

I don't agree with all the words on the list. No. 7 - leverage - is used all the time in financial circles, where it has a very specific meaning. And as I do a lot of financial stuff, I can't avoid it. Mind, I'd strike it in any other context. No. 8 - solutions - is a particular hatred of mine and I never, ever use it in journalism. Sadly, though, I get paid to use it in corporate work. The corporate work pays the bills and no matter how much I may try to persuade the client that "solutions" is a hideously over-used cliché, if they're paying and they really want it, they get it. The customer is always right, even when they are wrong.

I'm sure I could add a few choice examples to Good Copy Bad Copy's list. I'll certainly be keeping an eye on her updates, as should any self-respecting wordsmith.

Blog overload

Not content with this one, the other one and the handful of other blogs I update or guest on here and there, I've only gone and started a new one!

The new one, though, is proper work on a topic that passes for an addiction in the Wordsmith Towers household - soap. No, not the stuff I lather up with in the shower. The other sort. On TV. One of 'em, anyway.

I'm busy pimping it right now on Twitter and Facebook and I'll be updating it at least once a week. That'll keep me off the streets in the evenings. And it's good to be hacking again...

The long haul

My current job, a book edit, was supposed to finish a week ago. A combination of circumstances meant I needed an extension to complete it. That was duly negotiated and I even worked over the weekend to ensure I'd complete it today.

Alas, it was not to be. I'd been working at a good pace over the last fortnight or so, despite the aforementioned issues. Then I hit a brick wall. With just over 60 pages to go, my pace plunged to an all-time low of 2 pages an hour. Yes, 2. I'm used to doing 8-10 pages an hour. Even the ghastliest stuff I've worked on - usually something written by a non-native speaker of English and therefore prone to all those typical foreign errors - I can scrape through at 5-6 pages an hour.

Not this bastardbaby. I'm doing the reference section and it is, frankly, the worst one I've ever had to work on. And that's saying something, as I've edited some real stinkers in my time. I am having to google every single citation to check author names, title, publisher and the rest, because nothing - but nothing - is consistent, not even where the same citation crops up several times. Then there's the spelling, the punctuation, the styling... ok, ok, I know that's *my* job but the author had at least made a fairly good hash of it in the body of the book. When it came to the references, I suspect he chucked out the publisher's style guide along with his empty beer bottles and pizza boxes.

I've done a 15-hour day today, with barely a break. And I still have 40 soddingpages to go... Spare a thought for me, please.

At least I have an away-day tomorrow. Perhaps I'll be in a more willing frame of mind when I return to the grindstone on Wednesday. Then again, maybe not.

(Think of the cheque, Wordsmith, just think of the cheque...)

Facelift

Not me, I'm no fan of scalpels unless there's a tin of Cow gum, a steel rule and a cutting mat involved (ah, nostalgia for the days of galley layout!).

No, I've tarted up the Diary.

It was long overdue. When I started it, a year after I'd been ranting about freelancing on MySpace, the options on Blogger were limited. Later, the new templates became available but I've been putting off the upgrade for the best part of 2 years. Naturally, just when I really ought to be working my socks off to meet a deadline, I found myself in dire need of procrastinationdistraction and decided to overhaul things here. So - same style, but more widgety things and I've updated my blogroll and industry links so things are a bit more current and relevant.

I hope it all works. Tomorrow's probably when I'll discover that I've messed up my stats feed or something.

Call yourself a writer?

Along with a bunch of others, I've been tagged by hack-cum-blogger Linda Jones to come clean about my writing career. That'll be the writing career that was once very promising, lapsed somewhat when I exiled myself across the Great Ditch (aka the Channel) for over a decade, and is currently languishing in the doldrums as all my pitches vanish into a commissioning editor's black hole or two. But what the hell, I still call myself a hack and I'm not one to run away from a challenge. So, despite my current lack of any paid writing work whatsoever (and thank gawd for the editing work that's still paying the rent), herewith my answers to Joner's questions...

Which words do you use too much in your writing?

All manner of sweary stuff, especially on here. Writing for an adult mag also means I can use lots of anglo-saxon verbs and nouns legitimately, which gives me a smidgen of childish joy. I suspect the majority of this blog's vocabulary consists of grouchy, grumpy words as this is where I like to whinge. Fortunately for the rest of the world, my paid writing is more cheerful if no less serious. Or should that be was? And will be again if some lovely, charming editor ever hires me again this decade. Pleeeeeeeeease! Oh, go on. You won't regret it.

Which words do you consider overused in stuff you read?

I've given up reading a lot of mags for pleasure as they all seem to emanate from cliché central these days. I'm sick of reading about outmoded yet still perpetuated male/female stereotypes, how much I'm supposed to love designer labels, and crappy trivia about Z-list "stars". Oops, there's one - Z-list. "Dumbed down" is another overused phrase but I think it's appropriate for describing a lot of publications now. Sharp, interesting, thought-provoking and original writing seems to be in ever-shorter supply. And while the Liz Joneses of this world earn megabucks for peddling crap, many fantastic journalists are losing their jobs.

What's your favourite piece of writing by you?

I'm quite proud of this blog. And the various ones that preceded it. I had a brilliant blog about my sex life for several years, but I took it down a while back for various reasons. I've saved all the posts - racy, intellectual and entertaining as they are - and they may yet re-emerge in another format.

Of the paid stuff, I'm fond of my early stuff - I interviewed some great bands, including some I discovered and introduced to the wider world. I did some corking political features before I got cynical and cared less. And I had a fabulously bitchy TV review column in a listing mags for a while, although when they started televising the House of Lords I nearly got fired for calling the great and good "doddery old cocksuckers".

Regrets, do you have a few? Is there anything you wish you hadn't written?

Very few. I got expelled from boarding school for writing porn just before I was 13. That pissed my parents off immensely but I can't say I regret it - the school was awful and I really hated it but that youthful beginning got me out of there, so I don't regret that at all.

I've had a few run-ins with editors when I sailed too close to the wind and nearly sparked a few lawsuits. There was a column about the alleged drug habits of a certain Rezillo, for example, that had to be withdrawn and apologised for. The one about the doddery old cocksucking aristocracy that earned me a major bollocking. And a few others in a similar vein that nearly saw me collect a P45. I like to take risks, though, and tell it like it is. Safe is boring.

The only thing I really regret is getting utterly rat-arsed in the pub one night and telling a roomful of fellow hacks which famous Fleet Street journo I'd been shagging while still doing my indentures... They've never let me live it down.

How has your writing made a difference? What do you consider your most important piece of writing?

I doubt it. I went into journalism because I wanted to write. I wanted to change the world too, but I did that by getting involved with various causes and earning brownie points by doing stints on picket lines and at Greenham Common, and drinking lots of beer at benefit gigs, not by writing. I'd be amazed if anything I wrote had actually changed anything. In 31 years, I've only had one reader come forward and say thanks for making a difference. Which just proves that I'm utterly expendable as a journalist.

Name three favourite words

Hot, metal, and pub...

...And three words you're not so keen on

My office. Now.

Do you have a writing mentor, role model or inspiration?

Jean Scroggie was my English teacher when I was 14. She was everything I didn't want to be - prim, Scottish, repressed and a spinster. But she gave us a short-story writing assignment at which I astonished myself. She gave me the highest praise imaginable and I beamed, because she gave me permission to believe in my talent. Sadly, the story - called "Flight" and demonstrating a maturity way beyond my years - went missing shortly afterwards and I've been gutted about it for the last 33 years.

What's your writing ambition?

To get commissioned again. Honestly. Right now I'm at my lowest ebb ever as a journalist. I know it's not me - there's a recession on and my industry is going through upheavals that will change its landscape for ever. I'm not starving as I have enough corporate writing and copy-editing work coming in. But I'd really rather be writing for the press. Any press. Well, ok, not the Daily Mail, I wouldn't stoop that low. (Not even for Liz Jones' salary?) Is it too much to hope for that someone out there still wants to pay me NUJ minimum?

Plug alert! List any work you would like to tell your readers about:

Well, there was that book earlier this year. The one I still hate my publishers for because they mucked me around so much. I couldn't possibly plug the other stuff without outing myself. Those in the know know what else I've done or is shortly about to hit the shops. None of it will make my fortune so I should probably consider drafting some ghastly chick-lit novel instead. Or flogging this blog to a publisher...

Tag alert!

I gather I'm supposed to saddle some other suckers writers and bloggers with the challenge of furthering this meme. So, in no particular order:

Anne Brooke

Bill Hilton

Scott Colvey

The rules according to Joner: If you have time to do this meme, then please link to this blog entry, then link to three to five other writers or bloggers and pass it on, asking them to answer your questions and link to you. You can add, remove or change one question as you go. You absolutely do not have to be what you may think of as a "published" or "successful" writer to respond to this meme, I hope people can take the time to reflect on what their blogging has brought them and how it has been useful to others.

The numbers game

So an email's circulated on a list I belong to, offering a book that needs copy-editing. There's a catch - the copy-ed needs to be super-familiar with the topic, because it's rather specialised. No problem - I fit the criteria perfectly, whizz over my CV and a cover email and sit back and wait...

A week goes by. No word. I presume someone else has been given the book, which inexplicably infuriates me. Not just because I really wanted to do this book, but because there's a recession on and I need all the work I can get. But then, lo! Another 3 days pass and out of the blue I'm asked if I'm still available to edit the book. Damn right I am.

I'm given a word count and a "budget", which can be roughly translated as "this is the fee on offer and if you don't like it, tough." I dig out my calculator and do some sums. I know I'm skilled. I also know I can work fast as well as accurately. And so, sight unseen, I estimate that if the MS doesn't need too much work it'll only take X hours and the fee, while not brilliant in today's recession-driven climate, will be reasonable and at least cover August's rent and bills. I accept.

The manuscript arrives. I do my usual procrastination but of course there's a deadline and I eventually knuckle down. Half a day in, with 40 pages under my belt, I suddenly notice that the word count is almost a fifth higher than I was originally led to expect. Ouch.

I go back and examine the chain of email between me and the desk ed. It doesn't look as if there's any room for more money. But wait. This is a major publishing house. And this is not about an extra 1,000 or 2,000 words. If it had been, I'd probably have sucked it up in the hope of getting more work in the future from the client. No, it's an additional 20,000 words...

Only one thing for it. I fire off a diplomatic email and politely ask for more money and an extra 3 days' editing time. Within minutes, I'm granted both. Result. I get the extra 3 days, more if I need them.

And best of all, the revised fee I agree to accept is more than a fifth higher than the original. In other words, I'll be paid more overall pro rata.

Now that's what I call a win...

Hacking, slacking and death

The older I get, the faster time seems to whizz past. And so yet another month has somehow whistled past my ears without me blogging. There are reasons for this. Wimbledon, as usual, sucked up a fortnight of my time, during which I did very little work. Like many bloggers, I seem to have shifted my excess verbiage to Twitter instead of posting here. And while I've not exactly been loved up, I do seem to have acquired a new Mr WfH, which has also occupied my precious spare time.

On the work front, I've been semi-busy. It's tough out there right now (of which more in a mo). I gave up pitching a couple of months back when it became clear that the pitching I was doing was disappearing into a budget void. The distraction of the tennis generally means I slack off over June/July anyway so I can lie on my sofa and yell at the tv. And I've had enough copywriting and editing work to keep things ticking over enough to pay the bills. I'm now actively chasing new work and contemplating a fresh round of pitching features again.

The book continues to do well. I've completed the amendments that will be incorporated into the 3rd edition and a friend who has been commissioned to create a graphic novel about the story of Joy Division is going to quote me and the book in regard to Ian Curtis' epilepsy. Fame at last, steady on old girl!

In the interim, I've become an avid follower of certain blogs about journalism. I'm loving Journopig, a splendidly sarky take on the media. Fleet Street Blues continues to provide a great service posting vacancies, which are in short supply these days, as well as some pithy commentary on the current state of play. Overheard In The Newsroom amuses me daily. And last, but by no means least (to eke out that tired old cliché one more time), I'm reading Playing the Game. Sometimes I want to cry when I peruse the latest entry, others I want to howl with laughter (viz. the entry on HR). Much of this reminds me of my days as a junior on a weekly listings mag - the drinking, the piss-taking, the swearing (how the fuck do you think I learned to drink like a pro, eh?), the stroppy ed or two... I'm sick of reading about how my industry is dying (it's not, it's just going through a period of major change, ok) but PtG reminds me of everything that is good about the trade I love and why it's being ruined by profit vampires and accountants.

Lastly, I've yet again spent a couple of days in sad reflection and been on the receiving end of a journalist's mic. Many moons ago, as a young trainee, I worked alongside the very talented Harry Horse. We were more or less the same age - two teenagers forging our way in the press. I lost touch with Harry many, many years ago and only 18 months ago discovered the tragic circumstances of his death. So it was with a huge shock that I learned this week - a year to the day of publication - that the circumstances were far more bloody and gruesome than I could ever have imagined. Within 24 hours I was being interviewed by the hack investigating the story and reminiscing about the teen artist I knew 30 years ago. Poor Harry (and Mandy, obviously). It seems so out of character for the man I once knew and was close to. My heart breaks.

And on that note, till next time...

Catching up

My poor blog has been shamefully neglected once again. I must plead pressure of work, as I've been inundated with editing jobs and copywriting gigs. I've worked a lot of evenings but have also been making a concerted effort to get out more at night and weekends to socialise, so there's been less time spent at the keyboard when not working.

I've been exploring the possibility of doing an MA in Online Journalism - I filled in the application form, but to my embarrassment have yet to return it. This has mainly been down to the fact that I have to make a "personal statement" which, along with the interview, will be the determining factor in whether I'm offered a place on the course. The trouble is, when I went to uni to do my BA on my last career break, back in 1984, I wasn't asked to make a personal statement. I don't think these things even existed back then. I've made about dozen attempts to draft the statement and scrapped every single one as inadequate. Crazy, given I'm a professional writer. I just don't know what to say in it. I've never had to write anything like this before and I've no idea how it should be structured or if I'm supposed to plead my worthiness or whatever. I think I need to do some research. Online, of course.

The other big issue about the MA is can I afford to do it? Times are tough at the moment. Like all my freelance colleagues, whether writers or editors of whatever sort, I'm turning down almost no work just now as the future is too unpredictable. I don't want to take out a so-called career development loan to pay for my tuition fees because I fear being in debt (and have managed so far never to owe money to anyone). And I'd still have to support myself. I have bills to pay and a mouth and a cat to feed. And studying would have a massive impact on the amount of time available earning income. This is a major dilemma as I do really want to have a crack at the MA.

I need to make my mind up soon. That place won't be available for much longer.

Trivia: I've been listening to Electric Ink on Radio 4 the last couple of Fridays. It's a comedy series about the clash of old and new media at a newspaper. It's amusing in parts, especially the witty observations about cost-cutting and pandering to the advertisers, but the stereotyped characters are irritating and Robert Lindsay is wasted here. It's a shame as the potential to be a classic was there. I think I'll dig out my DVD box sets of Drop the Dead Donkey and Hot Metal instead.

I was vain enough to bag vanity URLS on Facebook today for my various profiles. Say hello to facebook.com/wordsmith4hire.

I will try to resume normal service again on here...