Being a copywriter is a little like being a lesser-known superhero. I don’t mean that we look good in leotards or that we spend much of the time in ill-frequented back corners of comic shops, though both are often true. It’s just that no one outside of our field understands exactly what it is that we do.

I’ve touched on this topic before, about what copywriting is and isn’t, but I’ve given up trying to educate the public. Screw that. I’m going to learn how to work with their misconceptions. I like the word yes. It rolls off the tongue. It gets me into some of the more peculiar, story-producing situations that elevate my life from banal to batshit. So the next time a stranger assumes that what I do involves a law degree, room full of Xerox machines, or an endless supply of black pens, I’m just going to smile, nod, and say yes by preemptively determining in my head that any possible misunderstanding is actually fact. Here’s how.

Possible misconception #1 – Copywriters copy stuff. Over and over again. And over again.

Uh-huh.

It’s understandable. The word “copy” and the word “writer” are in such close proximity. It nearly seems obvious. Of course I’d just sit at a desk and scribble the Oxford English Dictionary word by word. That’s how you get all those pretty books anyway. Copywriters.

I might itch to correct the next man, woman, or child who makes this innocent mistake, but I’m not going to. After all, a lot of the process of writing copy is repetitive. The client might want one idea restated a hundred different ways. They might like a particular phrase or word and want it woven into every aspect of their advertising, website text, or advertorial. And isn’t that just what being a creative is? Simply regurgitating the same concept an infinite number of ways in the hope that the umpteenth idea has a glimmer of originality glinting off of its cloned frame? So, sure, bro. I’m a copywriter. I copy and write for a living.

Possible misconception #2 – Copywriters right copy.

Yup.

This is the closest to truth you can get, maybe. Often a client will hand over their site or pre-written drafts with a sheepish look in their eyes, a down-turned gaze, or worse, a declaration of how terrible it is, said with the caveat of, “Can you keep this part…and this part…and oh, that sentence right there?”

Part of copywriting is that you are a magician. You make people want to spend money, you compel them to look at a product or company twice, you entice and captivate them with the voice, concept, or overall feeling of the words. But a lot of what you do is fixing shit, both your own and your clients’. You correct the wayward run-on sentence, coax life into a line that has fallen flat. You erect strings of lights and whirring pinwheels around those “must keep” thoughts and direct the viewer and potential customer to the irresistible attraction of…whatever it is. Absolutely I right copy for a living. Believe it.

Possible misconception #3 – Copywriting has to do with copyright law.

Yes.

This most common assumption comes from the confusion between the homonyms, but I’m no longer going to correct you. If I do my job right, my client will have a tagline, mission statement, or brand name that’s so unique and outstanding, they’ll have to get that shit protected by law. So, yeah, kinda. I am a copywriter whose work hopefully leads to copyrighting, though technically you probably mean trademarking.

A copyright is the set of exclusive rights given to the creator of an original work. The rights allow this author to copy, distribute, and change the work as they see fit. Often this pertains to movies, albums, illustrations like maps and charts, photographs and artwork, choreography and architecture, and, of course, books. A trademark is an indicator of ownership, usually for a name, logo, slogan, design, and/or image, in order to express that these elements are registered as pertaining to a specific source.

Now while explaining the legal ramifications and distinctions between the two would cause my ignorance to do full-frontal, I’ll suffice it to say that, yep, I’m a copyrighter. I’ll just let it slide in my head by reciting the term “intellectual property” like a mantra, and by letting the person believe that I wear skirt suits and have added the fancy-pants title of Esq. to my last name.

Possible misconception #4 – Copywriters are witches.

But of fucking course we are.

This would be the belief if the person heard copy riting.

One of the definitions of the word “rite“ relates to process art, which is the view and creative philosophy that the results of art aren’t the main goal. The objective is the process, and therefore the procedure, or the rite, is the sole purpose of the art itself. It’s like the saying that’s often taught to men about female orgasm: it’s all about the journey, not the destination. And while the words are undoubtedly the goal and ultimate outcome of copywriting, it takes a hell of a lot of process to get there, usually. So, yes, I’m a copy riter, too.

All of these possible misconceptions and their justification in my head might seem silly to you, but trust me, try being a fry cook and having everyone you encounter believe that you boil actual chefs in hot oil for a living. You’d get tired of it. You’d grow exhausted of defining your job, and watching the luster in a stranger’s eyes dull to a glazed sheen. You’d find a way to either quit your gig and become something simple and self-explanatory, like a FedEx pilot or a lion tamer or a ballerina. Or you’d figure out how to slip the head of a kitchen staff into a vat of sizzling pork fat.

I’ll conclude with the infinite apology.

This past week I had another “Flavor of the Week” column run in the New York Press. It was about the perils of online dating and how I only realized way too late that I wasn’t doing it with the hope of actually meeting somebody awesome. Somehow or another – subconsciously, counter-intuitively – I was looking for quite the opposite. So I wrote about it. And this is how I’ve learned the unfortunate lesson that, if you’re a non-fiction writer, you’re likely to battle guilt with every minor success.

I wanted to write a post about the responsibility that comes with non-fiction, about how I feel that other people become collateral for my writing, but the whole thing came across as so self-aggrandizing and myopic that I scrapped it.

That said, I’m sorry. I have to be, at least a little bit. To the seven or so individuals who went out on dates with me, I’m sorry that you became word fodder, though I’m sure my impression was equally as flawed. And I apologize to my ex. For what it’s worth, three years together amounted in the good sense that real relationships flourish in the world, that stupid, yet honest, one outside of the Internet.

The word "rush" can bring about bad connotations. For me, I immediately think of a Canadian band, a radio hate monger, and then I get a Paula Abdul song stuck in my head. But by far the worst rush is the kind associated with jobs. Although every project has a deadline, not every job can be labeled a "rush job." They’re a special bunch, as special as the bullies in grade school who knocked the wind out of you for entertainment.

In spite of the title, they aren’t simply jobs that have to be completed in the same amount of time Dennis Hopper gave Keanu Reeves in Speed. (115 minutes.) Any project that’s a labor-intensive, hour-devouring gig that’s only given a week or less can be considered a rush. Just because a week is a lot of time (168 billable hours,) that doesn’t mean that it’s enough to write all of the text for a page-heavy website. So whaddya do? Cry, because you need the money but you can’t say no? Say no, and eat a can of beans for dinner? Say yes, then passive aggressively do the work naked, with FUCK Y’ALL written on your knuckles?

You don’t have to go through that much trouble. Many copywriters have chosen to have a little client-training tool in their arsenal called a "rush job fee" or "rush charge." The latter sounds like a conservative talk show host playing football, but it’s far sweeter than Limbaugh being pummeled by Polamaltu.

Earlier this week we were emailed by a client who wanted help on a project and needed a list of taglines in a matter of hours. The details of the gig were confusing, and the parameters for the taglines were more rigid than Gwyneth Paltrow’s diet. We were also working on two other projects at the same time, along with crafting a proposal. Were we willing to put all of those things on hold to help out a previous client who was in a jam?

I am too much of a people-pleaser to make these decisions on my own. Simon deftly pointed out that, if we were in too much of a hurry, the quality of our work would suffer. What’s more, if we agreed to the flat-rate the client was offering, we were basically selling ourselves for less than we were worth, and at the expense of both our work and our regular non-rush clients. Simon set his jaw. A line was going to be drawn. Like Dr. Phil always says, we need to set boundaries. It was time to permanently establish our rush rate.

There are a few arguments for a rush charge. For one thing, it serves as a bit of a detriment to those clients that might otherwise abuse the fact that they can call you at 4:45 on a Tuesday afternoon and ask for a press kit by the end of Wednesday. Certainly if they’re charged your rate and a half, that will (hopefully) put a little speed bump on their racetrack as well as sweetening the stress-filled deal for you as a writer. A freelance copywriter has the privilege of setting their own rush rates, though I’ll go out on a limb like an adventurous kitten and say that marking rates up by 50% is standard. It’s like time-and-a-half for employees in the retail world. Some writers only charge 25% more, others make the hike depending on the size and scope of the project, while still others just refuse to take any time-pressured gigs on principle. Another interesting angle I’ve heard is not charging a rush fee at all. That, by charging extra money, you set the precedent that a sum of money will coax you into pushing your other clients’ deadlines back. Some writers say that this allows them to use their schedule as the only guide as to whether or not they’ll accept a project from a frantic speed-demon of a client.

From my point of view, everyone should want to charge a rush fee. The hasty precision required to get a rush job done rivals that of a field surgeon (from what I’ve seen in  reruns of M.A.S.H.) and the amount of stress that those jobs cause practically demands that you mandate an extra half of a paycheck. Otherwise you would have to ask yourself, "What’s in it for me?" If the answer was only the inklings of an ulcer, most people would just say fuck it, and refuse the work. Again, I’m too much of a work-hungry sop to have learned to charge a rush fee on my own. If I hadn’t worked in a team I probably would have just accepted rush jobs for a flat rate, or worse, my standard rates, and I would have ground my teeth down to tiny nubs with regret. I learned the seemingly counterintuitive rule over the years that, because I need the work, I have to charge a rush fee. If the client really needs the job to be done well, they’ll pay it. It’s that simple.

The main factor to consider for rush jobs isn’t simply scheduling, it’s our relationship to the client. Admitting this is a bit like admitting that I flirted with one guy just to meet his friend, but there are two categories of clients that can automatically get rush jobs from us. If a previous client who we have a longstanding relationship with calls us up and asks for something with a laughable turnaround time, we think about the jobs we’ve worked on together. If they’ve been exciting, and have turned out in a way that doesn’t make us want to take a broken Michelob bottle to our eye sockets, and especially if working with them has been drama-free, we’ll say yes to the mess. The other group of instant affirmatives are rush jobs that turn us on. If I’m called to work on a project that includes writing copy for an iPhone game featuring an Erasure song and jumping unicorns, I will say yes, even if I only have a matter of hours to pen that shit. (That actually exists, by the way.) Other fantasy examples would include being brought in on W+K’s incredible Old Spice campaign or working on anything with Steve Nash. In reality, actual projects of ours that have been rush jobs have included an AIGA article, a display book for a renewable resources organization, and assorted taglines for a bunch of different companies. The one thing that they all had in common was that they were so enjoyable, the time would have passed that quickly anyway.

There’s one rule of thumb you should keep in mind if you’re considering you’re rush fee: no two-timing. What I mean by that is that it’s like dating. You don’t flake out on someone you’re seeing at the last minute just to go out with a girl who has bigger boobs or a faster car. Don’t bump already established projects or put work on hold just for a job that could potentially pay you more in a shorter span of time. That isn’t fair to your current paying clients who aren’t such divas that they demand work on the spot. Be discerning. It’s one of the better perks to being freelance, other than wearing only underpants while being on a conference call.

Now you try to get Paula Abdul out of your head.

Soliciting clients is not like dating, no matter how badly you want it to be. You may wish to be engaging in a slow seduction, showing a little skin and giving a coy giggle and a wink. You can even convince yourself that it’s like courting, that the client is getting to know you, warming up to the idea of committing. But really it’s more like prostitution.

We’ll do anything for money. And we just try to make it clear, up front, that there’s nothing they can ask for that we haven’t already done, no kink too taboo, no position too uncomfortable. We are the ultimate working girl.

Our online portfolio was severely neglected for a year. If it had once been a domesticated housecat, by now it’s a feral tom on the street, rummaging through garbage bins and trying to impregnate every critter with four legs and a collar. So what’s to do with this grimalkin? After nearly a full rotation of the Roman calendar, we’ve submitted an entire portfolio overhaul to our web dev friend to fix ‘er up over the course of the next month, but this week we nearly learned that it could have been too little too late.

Building up a portfolio isn’t a science like baking, though it feels as though it should be. It’s an art, more like cooking a delicious risotto, only you never know if your potential dinner-mate has Celiac or is a vegan. We were asked by a big-name potential client to provide two additional samples on the spot because they found our online portfolio unimpressive. Gasp! (That was a sarcastic gasp. We’re unimpressed by it, too.)

The two impromptu pieces may have worked more in our favor, since the client got a chance to see how we would write directly for their website and they eventually went with us for the job. But it was a wake up call. Not every company gives you that kind of chance, especially if there are several writers clamoring for the chance to pen their words. So we’ve had to reevaluate how to build a portfolio that sings to every potential client, without alienating anybody or pigeonholing ourselves.*

We try to make it clear when hunting for clients: there’s no type of work we won’t do. But without the aid of a tailored cover letter, the only thing the public has to go on is our website. Back in the day, before the Innerwebz were the main mode of introduction, copywriters had portfolios made of paper and plastic, bound in leather or leather-like synthetics. They were large and wieldy, like a photographer’s portfolio or the diary from that really weird girl in high-school. High-quality print outs of your work were kept inside, and organized according to what was the most impressive. It was useful to separate the copy that was used for print ads from the copy used on radio, television, or mass mailings, which is similar to how many copywriters compartmentalize their online portfolios today.

The benefit of working with tangible portfolios, the kind that can actually give you papercuts and require a crazed bike messenger or hot FedEx guy to deliver them, is that you can tailor them for each firm that you’re contacting. Ideally, even in this virtual world, when you send samples to a potential client you’ll know about the job or their company, but often we find that we’re referred by word-of-mouth. This results in potential clients only seeing our website before they contact us or, at best, they’ll see our site along with the work we’ve done for their friend or colleague. That means that if they’re a sneaker company, for example, they don’t really see anything that convinces them that we could write for their foot-friendly campaign. They might see some stuff they like, either the tone from a prior job or a brilliant tagline from another, but they would really have to suspend their disbelief and give us a shot based on little more than hope and hearsay. And while we’d love to think that’s enough, coupled with a desperate and witty email from us, it isn’t guaranteed to seal the deal.

When revamping our portfolio, we had to keep a few things in mind that are helpful to any writer who is looking for some portfolio guidance:

• Prove that you have experience with large clients, just like any of the other, more voluminous agencies out there.

We’ve been lucky enough to work with some pretty heavy-hitters since the last time we updated our portfolio. By putting these jobs at the forefront of our site, we guarantee that a potential client will at very least be impressed. Or so we hope. Don’t be bashful, put your most prominent job out front. That way you can get it in the face of your site’s visitors and show that you have experience working with clients who have industry clout. Way back when, when portfolios had handles and zippers and shit, the advice was to put your best pieces on the first few pages. It seems obvious, but sometimes copywriters get fooled into thinking that if they don’t draw attention to the bigger names they’ve worked with, it’ll seem like they work with those larger names more often. Kind of like how not bragging on a date can make the subtle dropping of "Oh yeah, and I have a private yacht" or "Steve Nash is my brother" seem even more impressive. We remind you once more: this is not dating. Put your crown-jewel conquests out in front.

• Highlight your diversity…

…and we don’t just mean the fact that we’re each half Jewish and I used to be fluent in Spanish. Possibly the most important thing that your portfolio can do is demonstrate that you aren’t a one-trick pony. The problem with our site as it exists now is that we have a lot of whimsical, badass creative copy up, but it’s thin. It doesn’t show how we can write for a predominately female audience, or how we can adapt our tone to be more reserved and professional. What’s more, it doesn’t showcase the types of jobs we can do. It’s essential for potential clients to see that you can write for an iPhone app just as readily as you can write a bio. Your ability to absorb information and transform a company or brand regardless of its field or focus is key. Make sure that your portfolio is as well balanced as your diet. That means you’ve got to be full of more than just chocolate-frosted donuts with sprinkles.

• Tell, don’t just show.

Our portfolio didn’t do a very good job explaining what we did in each job. Sure, each section had a blurb and a screenshot or link, but there were no pull quotes, no in-depth breakdown. It’s vital that each piece of your portfolio explains who the client was, what you were assigned to do, and what the end result was. Why was the project difficult? Was there a specific reason why it was assigned to you? What did it entail? In our text overhaul we’ve tried to mention everything we’ve done, from conference calls to brainstorming social networking ideas. It shows the potential paycheck…I mean, client, that you do more than just write nifty snippets. You’re willing to work one-on-one in any capacity to get their copy job done. Also, don’t simply rely on screenshots, links, or pretty pictures of your work. Of course the client wants to see proof that you actually did the job, and they’d like to familiarize themselves with what the outcome of actually hiring you will look like, but a well-written, concise explanation of each project not only illuminates what you’ve done, it proves you can do it for yourself.

• Accentuate the positives, even if you can’t sing like Bing Crosby.

Although our parents will always brag about the awards we’ve won or accolades we’ve garnered, it’s important for us to gently brag about them, too. For every piece in your portfolio, make sure that you have a positive spin at the end. Sure, not every gig will get you a certificate of awesomeness as deemed by an international ad council, but if your web text increased the client’s site traffic, state that. If your last project launched a product that increased the company’s sales by a third, put that out there. Your potential clients have the right to know that hiring you will only bring them a fantastic return of investment. Even if it’s something small, like just restating the positive elements of the company who previously hired you, it’s enough to show the benefits of working with you, and how both parties benefited. 

The most important piece of advice is to update your portfolio every six months. I repeat, update your portfolio every six months. If you don’t have a wide variety of work, do pro-bono projects, collaborations, or write unsolicited samples. Make sure your contact information is updated, and, if possible and appropriate, send out a notice to previous clients about the work that you’ve been up to and direct them to the updated site. Remember that the only thing that stands between you and the entire client pool is your website. Be your own pimp, and let them know that you’re worth the money.

* The term pigeonhole comes from the tiny nesting boxes that the birds live in when housed in a pigeon loft. The saying was first recorded in 1789, back when pigeons weren’t known as letter carriers or rats with wings, but as dinner. By the 20th century it was being used as a verb, meaning to put aside or to categorize. Although I think that housing birds is pretty lame, especially if they’re pigeons, supposedly they like small, cramped, dark spaces. It apparently minimizes their stress level. Perhaps literal pigeonholing might be the next thing Ministry of Imagery tries to assuage our ulcers and stress headaches. We’ll add it to the list, right below transcendental meditation, Bikram yoga, and a visit to a sensory deprivation chamber.

After two years of doing this, I thought it would be different by now. The blog started out as a desperate documentation of my search for work, my need for money, and my fear that I would never make it anywhere using only my keyboard. I’d gotten fired from an eco start-up company whose staff consisted of two other people. It was the only time in my life I’ve ever been fired, and it was very evidently the first time my boss had ever fired anyone. I was living in Portland, Oregon, in a cavernous, unfinished house, with exposed insulation and unpainted wood in place of actual walls and ceilings. The cost was $450 a month. I had three male roommates, all of them bartenders. I’d spend my days plunking on the keys, searching high and low for a job, any job, to try to scrape together enough money for rent. I had one month of savings that could cover my phone bill and living space, but after those four weeks, if I didn’t secure a gig, I was toast. Finished. Done. I assumed I’d be forced to flee Portland, move back in with my mom on Long Island, and grovel at my old job to try to retrieve my previous position, which I’d left in quite a hurry. Life felt like a circus act that was moving way too quickly. I wasn’t sure what sort of safety net was below me, and fear left me unable to eat or do much more than stumble around the house, dodging wayward hungover boys. It was around this point in time that Simon got a little exasperated dealing with a sniveling, perpetually panicking girlfriend whose new hobbies included spontaneous crying fits and staring. He suggested that I start a blog on Tumblr, and when I didn’t, he started one for me, insisting that I was to write about the search for work and my feeling of impending doom, presumably instead of talking about it. So I did that. I also started working as a copywriter because, hey, that’s what he was doing, other than DJing three nights a week (which made considerably more money.)

We found that uniting forces was lucrative. My terror resulted in a frenzied and relentless search for clients, which benefited the business considerably. Instead of one or two bios for friends or local musicians, we started to work for people out of state, doing larger projects like corporate blogs and success stories. The money wasn’t good or steady, but three days prior to my seemingly inevitable eviction the first check rolled in. Though we were splitting .79 cent cans of Fred Meyer brand refried beans for meals, and I was relying solely on donations from this blog to upgrade to cold cereal, things were looking up. We kept writing and kept trying. We moved to Simon’s hometown of Norman, Oklahoma to save money, figuring that moving in together and living near his family, would result in slow-and-steady savings. My mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer three months after we settled in Norman. I relocated to New York alone, and we continued to work as Ministry of Imagery remotely. By this point the clients were much bigger, we wound up working on projects for Air New Zealand, Getty Images, Johnson & Johnson, even Microsoft. We were subcontracted cheap-as-dirt freelancers, and smart firms snatched us up in a pinch. Again, the money wasn’t steady. Freelancing never is. Simon retired his headphones because DJ gigs in Oklahoma were, as you’d imagine, poorly-paying fratboy brodowns resulting in little more than demands for Kanye and a headache. In New York, I was too preoccupied trying to care for my dying mom to really worry too much about what was going to come next professionally. I kept writing. Everything in my life felt like a distraction, but the security of being near my mother kept the hungry badgers of borderline poverty and desperation at bay. The donations to Jerk Ethic dried up, but Jason Kottke gave me the chance to guest edit his blog and I got a piece in the New York Press. There was a mix of good and bad, but the whole time the fact that my mom was going to die kept me completely incapable of focusing on much else. I didn’t care what was going to happen next, so long as I had something to write about.

Fast forward to the past few months. I sold my mom’s house, bought an apartment with all of that money, and now live pretty much the same way I have for the past few years. Simon and I are still hanging on by a thread, unaware of where the next paycheck is coming from, still unsure about how to get more clients. Hustling has always been exhausting, but these days it feels fruitless. The projects we’re working on are incredible, and as a whole our clients today are all people we enjoy working with, cohorts who make conference calls feel like casual conversation, colleagues who give us the creative freedom to truly love what we do. But I just wonder if it’s sustainable. I’m in my late twenties, and being able to save money feels as likely as riding a unicorn in the Cubs’ World Series championship parade. I know that times are tough, the economy is belly-up, working in a creative field pretty much guarantees you a lifetime of misery and financial struggle, but I still want more. I see people like my father who worked tirelessly to get to where they are, finally able to enjoy the proverbial fruits of their labor. He finally has the opportunity to take a look around and survey the measure of his success. Herculean work, amaranthine hours, mayonnaise sandwiches, and even the seeping shadows of doubt are all a part of his story, yet he kept plodding through and he made it. He’s able to do crazy shit that it seems like I will never be able to do on my salary: travel, buy artwork, eat at restaurants that don’t have half-price specials. I wonder if copywriting is a field that won’t allow me to strike out and become prosperous on my own. Perhaps Simon and I will continue to work out of the living room, gnawing at our lips and begging for work until there truly are no more clients and we’re forced to go out and get jobs as baristas, receptionists, S/M workers. For me, the defeat feels crushing. And unavoidable.

I’ve started scouring Craigslist, CareerBuilder, Monster, Gorkana. At first I was looking for copywriting gigs, or even just information on which firms in New York were hiring. Then I found myself scrolling through administrative and office positions, wondering if there’s any hope there. I have a gap in my resume since my last desk job that’s so wide it could house a a Super Walmart. In truth, after working for myself for a few years, I highly doubt I have any skills that an employer would look for in a new team member. To top it off, this is New York, where many front desk positions require either a headshot or what is described in the posting as "professional appearance and demeanor." I am now covered in tattoos, have a septum ring and lesbian hair, you really think I’m the person to be the face of anyone’s company, other than an anarchist bookstore or eco-friendly sex shop? I keep applying, no one is calling.

This melancholy has less to do with the lack of funds than it has to do with personal pride, though, to be honest, I have no idea how we’re going to stay afloat through summer. If a person can’t get up and feel truly useful, like they’re accomplishing something and making some sort of impact, what do they have? I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember, and while it was fine in high-school to assume I’d pen poetry on my nights off of being a professional rock star, this seemingly stark failure after putting my passion professionally on the line is profound. I’ve tried to make a living doing the one thing I feel completely confident in my ability to do, and even that doesn’t seem like it’s enough. What’s worse is that I don’t know where I go from here.

Turn to page 53 if Ainsley decides to go into a mountain of debt and attends graduate school for something useful, like Creative Writing.

Turn to page 17 if Ainsley becomes a certified yoga instructor even though she hasn’t been practicing for that long and is far too cynical to chant without laughing.

Turn to page 86 if Ainsley searches for an older, wealthy man or woman to be her patron and rumored lover.

Turn to page 115 if Ainsley keeps writing with Ministry of Imagery and they land a massive, lucrative, ongoing freelance gig with a well-established creative firm.

Turn to page 22 if, consumed by the overwhelming malaise that arose from writing this post, Ainsley gives up and takes a nap.

I like to talk. A lot. So does Simon, but when he talks it’s usually about something that’s half-way interesting, like a new iPhone app that tells you where the nearest kittens are. I just fill the air with words. So the two of us in a business together is like an air canon of conversation: WORDS. In person this can be charming, as we’re both small and talk with our hands. But on a conference call it’s like trying to choreograph hummingbirds.

We haven’t had a whole lot of business calls until recently, we usually have been a strictly email business. We’d average maybe only one or two calls a month, while now it’s three or four a week. We both agree that it’s on the phone that we’re at our worst, which makes this a scary situation. I have to add that I’m terrified of the telephone. I hate it. I’d much prefer if we used the smoke signals that Homer talked about in The Iliad, or carrier pigeons, hell, even Morse code. People may have once seen it as a magical, transformational instrument of the future, but I just see it as a tool for anxiety and other assorted discomfort. If I’d been on the receiving end of Alexander Graham Bell’s utterance of "Come here. I want to see you." I would have run the other way.

Business phone calls are only bearable for a handful of reasons, one of which is that I’m not the only one on this side of the line. Also, after three years, I can venture a pretty good guess about what Simon is thinking most of the time. While on calls we can use hand signals and notes like two kids cheating on a chemistry test in order to make sure we don’t step on each other’s toes and still articulate ourselves clearly. (We do have a bad habit of finishing each other’s sentences that is both embarrassing and as professional as Lindsay Lohan.) But because most of the time we hang up feeling like we just woke up from a regrettable one night stand, I thought I’d post a list of tips for how to have a business phone call that’s more effective than ours and doesn’t leave you feeling like you’ve been wearing steel-wool underpants.

Know the number you’re calling. Seems simple, doesn’t it? I can’t tell you how many times we’ve been involved in a multi-player game of phone tag that featured people who were paying our rent.

Close the windows and tranq the dog. Background noise is a big issue in the Big Apple. Making sure that sirens, drunk people, and that dude who likes to scream Bon Jovi are kept outside and under 31 decibels is a key component to a successful business phone call. We don’t actually drug Snack. She’s too aloof to bark.

Make sure your phone is charged. Important. And self-explanatory.

Know the names of the people on the call. Chances are I will be called Ashley, but that doesn’t mean that everyone else on the call should have to go through the mortification of correcting the other parties involved. Although it’s often hard to tell whose speaking if there’s more than one person on the line, it’s useful to know their names and positions in relation to the project.

Be prepared for AT&T to drop the call if you’re on your cell. This only really applies to callers in New York. Of course, ideally you’re not calling from your cell. Predictably, we only use our cell phones.

Outline first. A business call is more like interpretive dance than a night at the disco. While it’s important for things to remain fluid on the party line, it’s vital that you know what questions, comments, and concerns you have before you get on the call. This also saves you the added humiliation that comes from having to send a post-call email asking that question that you forgot, or worse, having to call back.

Do not make out with your co-worker.

Take notes. I’ve done the technique of recording, I’ve even transcribed calls, but, for me, the most effective method of documenting a call is putting a pen to paper. I also recommend that more than one person does this. If Simon and I both notate, we lower our percentage of shit missed by approximately one-third to half. It also provides the opportunity for dueling doodles at the top of our pages.

Have an exit on hand. We’re long-winded people-pleasers. If the person or people on the other end of the line are of the same ilk, a phone call can devour the better half of an afternoon. Of course we don’t mind charging by the hour, but it just doesn’t seem right to smack someone with a bill for several hundred dollars for discussing their Malaysian cooking class or their wife’s due date. (Hey, we’re not therapists.) Practice the art of politely getting out of a conversation a few times, possibly with your relatives, telemarketers, or your ex-girlfriend. Remember that you’re busy, and time spent at the keyboard is money better earned than time spent discussing last night’s episode of House with the guy whose site you’re wording.

Know when to shut up. As with marital disputes, keeping your mouth shut is possibly the single most important thing you can do on a phone call. Don’t interrupt like we do. Wait to make your points. Write them down as they come up if you need to. Just hush. And breathe. After all, it’s only a phone call.

My friend has a theory that ADD and ADHD are bullshit. His belief is that there are too many distractions in modern life for children to grow up without an inability to focus. Basically he thinks that we all have ADD and ADHD, and it’s due to the amount of glittering, whirring gizmos we welcome into our lives. Between HDTV, 3-D movies, the virtual reality of home computers, and Smartphones, it’s impossible to keep your eyes on one thing for long enough to blink twice. I only bring this up because this week presented the kind of project that required the monotonous tasks of cutting, pasting, and thinking up four-hundred headlines for a travel-related iPhone app. It was the kind of work that was creative and enjoyable, but it caused a sort of drone-like trance state, where motions became routine. The only way to prevent drool spilling out of my mouth and onto the keys was to succumb to the siren song of the Internet. Which is a job hazard wrapped in the lingerie of a job perk. Internet distraction needs to be carefully dosed, lest freelancing begins to take the "glorified" out of glorified unemployment.

The Internet is my office. I work using mainly Google Docs, I run Chrome for browsing and use Live Writer for blogging. We use Basecamp for projects, and primarily conduct correspondence through Gmail or Gchat versus the traditional conference call. I’m not disciplined enough to sit at my computer all day, knowing that a world of wonder is one tab away, without peeking behind the curtain. Sometimes it feels a bit like I’m a drunk working as a bartender, only the analogy goes kaput once I recognize that, if that were the case, tiny relapses wouldn’t be discouraged, they’d be welcomed.

See, for me, fucking around on the Internet is my coffee break. Facebook is my break-room. Tumblr is my cigarette. Twitter is my extra long pee and conversation about last night’s CSI with Cheryl from accounting. The problem is, as with any gig, you can’t let the breaks get the better of you. Most of us have worked desk jobs where some sorry asshole (hopefully not you) started getting too caught up in enjoying their downtime, hitting up the MySpace, or bullshitting with their buddies. One day they were called into the boss’ office, and ten minutes later they were carting their belongings down in a box, possibly with a security escort. Every job requires discipline.

I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that working from home, in your pajamas, with the creature comforts of your television, tea kettle, and comforter a mere arms-reach away, makes that battle for focus slightly more difficult. Working on the Internet ups the interruption ante. But I’ve learned that a taste of the forbidden fruit of free time isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I’ve written before about the benefits of fucking around for a little bit each day. It’s like that guy who used to work two cubicles over, the one who never seemed to leave the office until the day he disappeared. Eventually you heard he was rumored to be in a hospital suffering a breakdown, six years later he’s living on an ashram and going by the name Tandralu. Burn-out is a real thing. But here’s the tricky, sticky part of the Internet being your main means of diversion: you can’t tell if your cigarette break is going to turn out to be a three-hour meth bender. In the "real" world, there are concrete means of getting some time away from your screen. Most of them involve consuming food, drink, or chemicals, and most of them are fairly mundane. To extend the metaphor, if Facebook is my break-room, I’m never sure whether I’ll walk in and grab a quick cup of tea or if I’ll wind up studying the fabric of the couch for a few hours. Getting distracted on the Internet requires vigilance and brute strength to keep it brief, at least for me.

For example, this week the Internet was good for several respites. I took ten minutes to locate an old friend and find out that he’s attending a Masters program for English. I discovered that the guy who passed me his email at the gym is actually a married performance artist from the Midwest. I located the greatest cheap Thai restaurant in our neighborhood. I ordered Sriracha and a wedding gift. All of these things took less than fifteen minutes and helped me to get my brain back on track.

What didn’t work was my quest for a new book, courtesy of a still unused Christmas gift-card from my cousin. Looking up countless tomes on Barnes and Noble ate up the better part of an hour, and amounted to nothing but frustration. (Really, what I keep hoping is that Mary Roach will release, like, six books at once. Somehow I imagine that she’ll either channel Stephen King or develop a speed problem and start writing books the way I complain. By which I mean incessantly.) Also approaching productivity from the opposite corner was a short story competition. Although I wholeheartedly believe that writing for competitions is a vital part of my upkeep as a professional, it can drain a lot of energy, especially when I’m working under a deadline. It doesn’t allow for any real downtime either, since downtime spent crafting a story isn’t exactly the same sort of time suck as, say, looking at pictures of Lady Sovereign on the web. Email is also a fucking Molotov cocktail thrown at the window of my ambition. Sure, I’ll get to those other 175 headlines, right after I write back my friend who is going through a breakup, my pal who is dealing with the ice storm in Oklahoma and wants to know a good app to kill time, and my very favorite yoga instructor who is just "checking in." Those emails only took…well, the truth is that I can’t tell you. I didn’t respond to all of them, because when I noticed how close to the wire it was, I abandoned that second email mid-sentence. It’s still saved in Drafts.

I don’t know if I can say that there are hard and fast rules to budgeting your breaks. I believe that, as with all things freelance, you have to design your own system. One of the greatest graphic designers we know works from his basement from midnight until 4AM every day, getting buckets of stuff done. Other developers take hourly breaks to eat Pringles and smoke. (I’m leaving the specifics of that last detail to your imagination.) When it comes to using the Internet as a method of recreation while also using it as your mode of work, it bears repeating that if you throw moderation to the winds, the greatest pleasures bring the greatest pains. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline to meet.

Times are tough. After the Styrofoam-laden dust settled and Simon and I were sufficiently unpacked we realized that we have no new clients. None. And while dry spells are common around the holidays, this one feels particularly discouraging. So what’s a freelance copywriter to do? I thought of getting a side job, one that doesn’t bore me. One of the common complaints I had as an office drone was the way life seemed to pass like molasses on top of a frozen pie tin. Florescent lights robbed me of my sense of time. Pantyhose cut off my circulation, often resulting in my my labia falling asleep. The only fun I had was making copies, which I often fucked up, or answering the phone, which I often fucked up even more, depending on my state of grogginess. Grogginess caused by lack of sleep, lack of sleep caused by anxiety about work, anxiety about work caused by being in a low-level job that didn’t involve words, editing, or creativity. Going freelance might have meant forfeiting a regular paycheck, but it also meant tasting the soft-serve frozen yogurt of freedom. I will try to find a way to make copywriting work, up until the terrifying last penny. In the meantime, I’d best explore other ways to keep my brain and my bank account active, while preserving enough time to dedicate to Ministry of Imagery.

I’ll take a minute here to admit to putting ads on the site. I put ads on the site. Because I’m making no money. And maybe, just maybe, putting ads on the site will afford me some groceries to put in the pantry of the new apartment. Or at least make me feel like I’m going legit.

Other than clogging your eyes with ads, what can I do to raise some revenue? I thought about different varieties of writing that I’d like to try, catalog discriptions and professional wrestling scripts came to mind. But if I write as a side job, then what about what I actually want to write? Would that wither and dry up faster than a normal person’s sex drive when presented with an 8×10 glossy close-up of Mickey Rourke’s new face? I assume I should try something that could be relatively simple and stimulating, that doesn’t require a set schedule or dressing up and playing office. Something that could be lucrative, and possibly secretive. As I wracked my brain I finished a novel that I had to read in place of television. (One of the nuisances of moving is that you have to cut cable on one place and install it in another. At least in New York this feat alone takes roughly as much time as becoming a veterinarian.) The book was called Gods Behaving Badly, by Marie Phillips. I’m not going to spoil the plot, but in it the goddess Aphrodite is a phone sex operator. It was then that I remembered that this was a go-to gig for fellow freshmen in the brief year that I went to Sarah Lawrence.

There was one girl in particular, a butch lesbian with a lazy eye named Ariel. Pudgy, aggressive, the kind of girl who could provide you with a bodyguard or a dimebag of weed, she wasn’t exactly what I’d describe as a male fantasy. But what she lacked in heterosexual charm she made up for with a husky voice. She operated a phone sex line out of her off-campus room and proceeded to put herself through college with little more than a phone line and an occasional marijuana retail business. And it was this hazy college memory, coupled with the fictional goddess of love purring into a Bluetooth device, that suddenly got the clam-craving cogs in my brain turning.

In the late 1980s and 1990s, phone sex hotlines experienced an upswing in popularity due to the 900 number. Callers could choose their ultimate phone fantasy partner, using lines that advertised "no taboos" that allowed for those looking for particular kinks to know that they’d be welcome, so long as they had a method of payment and time to kill. In 1996 the FCC rained on the paid calling parade by changing regulations in order to prevent fraud or abuse of the lines by minors. Party lines, which differed in price and access from hardcore lines, were forced to comply with a list of euphemistic restrictions. From an account of her time as a PSO (as industry insiders call it) Joyce Ventimiglia writes:

“The "party lines" were not considered "hardcore" and the FCC was spot-monitoring to make sure we didn’t say anything obscene. This is a little like ordering a full course meal in a restaurant without mentioning food; it’s really hard to get the point across. For example, we euphemistically replaced the usual dirty words with code phrases like "pussy-cat," "brown-eye" or "man-meat." A typical line would be something like "Oooh big boy, take your man-meat out of my pussy-cat and put it up my brown-eye."’

Other regulations included a prohibition on simulating sex itself, leaving it only as a topic of loudly moaned conversation.

As of 2007, there were only two large chat line companies operating in the United States, one being Sweet Sensations, who are in charge of PhoneSex.com, and The Providence Telephone Company. The Providence Telephone Company changed its business model by providing free chat services that had advertisements that lonely callers were forced to listen to prior to being connected with another person. Other methods of operation include call-back services, where a caller will ring up a secretary who will coordinate a phone call back between them and a willing pay-per-minute person who fits their specific criteria.

The phone sex industry rakes in nearly $500 million a year according to the Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington. In order to start dialing up a piece of that pie you can begin by getting hired or going independent. If I were to choose flying solo I would basically be signing up for the same sort of dedicated daily grind that I endure as a writer. I’d have to set up a website, promote myself, advertise, manage payments, somehow utilize active database marketing, and troll chat rooms for sad sacks willing to shill out some bucks for a human voice.

Working for a company is a little easier.  First you prove that you are over the age of eighteen. Then you have to make sure that you have a quiet place to work and a land-line with a corded phone. Lastly, and most importantly, you have to be patient and able to engage people in conversation for as long as possible. It also helps not to be prudish. I have a quiet place to work so long as Simon has a bag of Goldfish crackers. Snack doesn’t bark much so that’s not a problem either. Setting up a land-line might be a little bit of a pain in the ass, but considering how badly phone companies need to make money I have faith that it could get done. And, hey, maybe I could even invest in that Garfield phone I always wanted.

Things to keep in mind include making sure that your number is protected and that you can get out of the work without any trouble should you decide that it isn’t your cup of smutty tea. As with any job, don’t sign anything until you’ve read all of the fine print, and never, ever pay to work. Be aware that a lot of these companies have become gateways to other Internet-based sex endeavors, mainly web cam performances. The first company to unite the Internet with phone sex was Sweet Sensations back in 1996.

The pay days are varied, with some phone fantasy actresses only pocketing nine dollars a day, some less than $2000 a month. (I’m not going to say anything, but, compared to the amount of work we have right now, a G this month would be peachy keen.) Some girls have flat fees starting at around $20 for ten minutes, with the cents-per-minute going up exponentially after that.

Some savvy phone sex operators make about $60 to $100 an hour, depending on the amount of calls they take and their rates. Because girls are often paid for their "talk time," and not the amount of time they’ve logged in, it’s imperative to talk like a lonely cat owner on a grocery store line. Rates vary but average about .12-.15 cents per minute for the first five minutes, with an increase to .30 cents for the following five, and a jump to .40-.60 cents per minute if the caller stays hooked for over that initial ten. More or less this is the kind of industry where it pays to be a windbag. But at the end of the day, it isn’t a guaranteed steady living.

Payments are usually once a week, with companies demanding little more than a certain number of hours "logged" per week (usually around 10 or more.) According to that old stalwart, Providence Telephone Company, the average length of a call for gay callers was about twenty minutes per call, while straight callers would only gab for ten minutes or so. Interestingly, roughly 30% of all callers were physically challenged or housebound.

I’ll be honest, after reading about it, this isn’t the best line of work for me. I’m sarcastic, cynical, and very, very shy. Things like dumb blogs and Twitter are perfect for a coward such as myself. I hide behind the written word because it allows me the introspection to edit what I say and not actually lend it my high-pitched, often-grating voice. Besides, I pronounce certain words funny, like roof, mirror, and fire. Not as if those are hot button sex words, although perhaps they fall under that FCC euphemism jurisdiction. Moreover, I don’t think that I would be able to tolerate such blatant displays of loneliness. I’m not judging those who call phone sex lines, I’m simply recognizing that I’m not at my most comfortable when confronted with the sad, dejected, rejected, and alone, unless I’m sitting on a folding chair in a Church basement discussing my drinking. Making a profit off of the withdrawn and isolated wouldn’t seem fair, especially if they were imagining tying me to a bedpost and pouring Hershey’s syrup all over my make-believe breasts.

Some people think it would be the best kind of job for those of us with overactive imaginations and potty mouths. Maybe, but I’d still rather explore the option of writing the storyline for professional wrestlers. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about the Feds watching my language.

NOTE: I occasionally put up links or resources to help out those of you who are interested in the kinds of work posted on the blog. With this one I felt weird linking to outright porn. If you’re looking to explore becoming a phone sex operator, Google SexyJobs, Sweet Sensations, or PhoneEntertainers. But, really, if you want to do this kind of thing it’s not that difficult to find a way in, according to everything I read. Certainly it’s not as tough as trying to get new clients as a freelance copywriter. Good luck. Talk ain’t cheap.

Tiger Woods’ friends are afraid for him. After sticking his nine iron in anything with a hole and a heartbeat ("Fore! Teen!") he’s close to a nervous breakdown, and closer to a divorce. Of course he should take an "indefinite leave" from his job.

I’m not equating moving to humping your way out of millions of dollars, a marriage, and a career, but I am insinuating that losing my mom and living in a creepy, empty house with a temperamental boyfriend and very nervous lapdog during the holidays can be considered living under a significant amount of stress. But I’m not taking an indefinite leave from writing anytime soon. At least not until the buxom barmaids start crawling out of the woodwork to air my dirty laundry.

It’s safe to assume that if you work, you will one day be employed while suffering through a period of seemingly unbearable stress. This can be caused by a break-up, family illness, eviction, spiteful roommate, or any number of other unsavory experiences. Prior to working as a copywriter, I remember my never-ending hangover getting in the way of certain desk jobs. Another time, I impulsively moved the same weekend I resigned from my job, though the events could have easily reversed their order. I dealt with the fallout of a friendship, discovered that a paramour of mine had a live-in girlfriend of  several years, and dated a mentally unstable barista who worked down the block, all while managing to keep my head above water, and above the photocopies, when I was a receptionist. Work often sucks. Working when you’re dealing with more important shit sucks more.

The closing date on the house has been pushed to the first week of January, courtesy of attorneys’ vacations. Currently we are huddled over our laptops in a very cold, very empty house. We have a television on a plastic container, a couch that is stained with I’m not sure what exactly, a mattress on the floor, and a functioning fireplace. We have a lot of fires, which would be cheerful and a nice, seasonal touch, if we weren’t using them as our sole source of warmth. After the first week it got a bit Chekhovian.

In Portland, we each worked under less-than-ideal conditions at certain points. Simon had an older man as a landlord who had a crush on him. The sixty-four year old chap hovered in his doorway for hours trying to start conversation while half-heartedly attempting to restrain his overly-barky, inbred, Lassie-doppelgänger of a dog. Simon would huddle over his laptop trying to block out the sound, only to be driven out of the house. In coffee shops, where the majority of caffeinated kids knew him as a DJ, he would spend his hours between the keystrokes trying to politely dodge conversation. In the meantime, if I wasn’t at home I was "accidentally" spilling tea near anybody who laughed loud enough for me to hear over my earphones. When I was at home I was trying to avoid my roommates in their various stages of intoxication. There’s a reason why companies rent office space.

Working under stress is bad for your health, and not just because it can drive you to inhale cartons of Parliament Lights or swill a bathtub’s worth of gin. Sleep distress, tense muscles, headaches, diarrhea or nausea, and extreme fatigue often set in, not to mention the panic attacks, poor diet, and deportment of a dung beetle. Even worse, studies show that incessant stress can lead to high blood-pressure, cardiac problems, addiction, and ulcers. You can go bald.  You can stop menstruating.  Each of us has done one of the two.

When undergoing stress, other than suddenly having my ovaries post a Fail Whale, I feel like I’ve eaten a pair of knitting needles, and I chronically clench some muscle in my lower jaw that causes the back of my neck and shoulder blades to knot up like a pair of stockings in a clothes dryer. I’m also prone to chronic nightmares when dealing with a heavy load, which works against another tried-and-true piece of stress management advice: get enough sleep. I take a shit-ton of fifteen minute cat naps in order to cope, which I look at as my little equivalent of a corporate food court or holiday bonus.

There are ways to avoid stress that seem obvious, but you don’t have to become a yoga-mat toting hippie in order to prevent blowing your gasket. Take breaks regularly, and not just to drain the dragon. Synaptic pathways in your brain need time to recharge themselves, ’cause if they keep doing their thing, much like Lindsay Lohan hitting the club circuit, they burn out in spectacular fashion. So take breaks when your nose is making out with the grindstone, and take them often. It’ll make you a better worker. Science says so.

Eliminate distractions that you can control. Turn off the television blaring breaking news, and turn off your iPod if it’s your turn during a game of Words With Friends. (My username is AinsleyOfAttack, for those of you looking to decimate me in Scrabble.) For distractions you can’t control, be creative. If you’re a new parent, see if another freelancing new mom or dad would be willing to alternate two hours of babysitting duty. If your roommate is having ridiculously loud sex in the apartment when you’re looking to get things done, leave a polite, if not outright passive-aggressive, note under his or her door, and then go to the nearest library or other quiet, WiFi-saturated area. Or just suggest a threesome and expedite the whole process. Blame it on the need to heal your synaptic pathways.

I’ve found that having a plan B helps, too. If you were hoping to hole up in a local diner and finish working on that web video script, but a bevy of screeching harpies dressed in the skin of teenage girls comes in once you’ve logged on, know where there are other spots nearby to hook up and tune out. Have a list of places on hand for moments like that and you’ll save yourself the stress of searching while on deadline.

Speaking of lists, write them. It can help you to stay organized, which is often the first thing to go when you’re under duress. Look for the humor in the situation, may it be your dog sleeping in a pile of your boyfriend’s laundry, or the crickets on the floor of the bathroom. (Okay, maybe they’re not funny at all.) Remember that you are not what you do for a living.

Perhaps the best advice I can give is the weltanschauung I follow most stringently. At risk of sounding out of touch with the modern musical world, I follow Ian MacKaye’s lead, sorta. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, but the fucking…well, everybody’s gotta have a vice. Being sober and a non-smoker keeps my body from feeling shittier than it already does when I’m at the end of my rope. Eating well and trying to get a full eight hours of sleep help, too, but I can honestly say that I have no idea how I managed to work when I was actively drinking. I must have been an excruciatingly annoying co-worker. But fun at parties!

All of this said, the holidays can make work awesome if you’re in an office. There are often cookies in the break-room, holiday parties, and a vacation with a Christmas bonus looming in the days ahead. For the freelancer, this time of year can make it slightly more stressful to apply pressure to clients and to hunt for work. But whether it’s the "most wonderful time of the year" or just an average week in March when you’ve scheduled the visit from your in-laws, there are always going to be times when work is going to march lock-step with some other seemingly insurmountable obstacle that life has thrown in your path. Keep your head up, keep your stress level down, and recognize that this — like the absolutely grating Gap commercials with dancing models — too shall pass.