Thoughts About Choosing Violence.
No, not literally. Just in the memefied interpretation of the word.
Happy March 1st, my dear readers. Given the swift advent of Spring, before delving into today’s thought, I want to share a song that has been keeping me in good spirits lately.
It is mandatory you listen to this track before starting to read because the tone of the piece today is quite vexed.
I would hate to rile you up without offering a palliative solution. So get a quick dance in! Soak the good vibes in and happy Wednesday!
The first time a publication approached me to write an article, I couldn’t believe it was actually happening.
Up until then, my personal writing work had never left the untidy pages of various scuffled notebooks and in the professional realm, I only ever got to flex my skills in press releases or internal documents.
I had never really seen writing as a viable career path. I definitely didn’t believe my writing was good enough to be published on the glossy pages of an established magazine, available for millions to read across the globe.
It was 2014, and I remember the day of the request quite vividly. Back then, writing professionally was far beyond anything I had ever dreamed of doing. It had yet to materialize as a necessary part of my life.
At that time, my work identity was still deeply ingrained in the world of clothing. I had just started making a “name” for myself in the fashion industry and my eyes were still glistening at the sight of glamorous runway shows.
Football had only been a peripheral interest of mine and its intersection with everything culture had yet to become a center of gravity in my orbit.
I had recently quit a dead-end job. A position that originally sounded enticing but steadily began to decline a few months in. During that idle period of time, I pandered to odd gigs here and there as a way to make some spare change and gain new insights into where I’d eventually like to take my career.
Then one day, out of the blue, my friend Calum (shout out Calum!) texted me about an opportunity with Mundial magazine: they were working on an edition dedicated to “Italia 90” – 1990’s World Cup – and they were looking for stories that fit the theme.
They were only on their first issue at that time, but they were already the leading platform for everything football and culture.
As the daughter of a footballer who had played alongside some of the most prominent talents of that era, Calum thought I may be of help. And I was.
In his youth, my dad attended the same academy as Totó Schillaci – the star of that tournament – and they happened to still be in touch.
When asked if I had any interesting leads that could go into the number, I immediately pointed this detail out. Pleased, they eagerly accepted the pitch.
A few weeks later, as I sat perched on the corner of the uncomfortable sofa bed that swallowed up most of the kitchen space in my tiny studio apartment – my heart pulsing in my throat – I took a deep breath, dialed Schillaci’s phone number and waited for an answer.
On the other side of the line, a low baritone voice with a clear Palermitan accent – open vowels reigned supreme – said hello in an inquisitive tone.
I gasped, identified myself, and proceeded to start the interview – totally unprepared, inexperienced, unaware – trying to sound as professional as I could while my palms sweat and my heart’s palpitations slowly increased in speed.
At the end of the conversation, when I had exhausted my (very weak) repertoire of questions, I thanked him and dived into the transcription right away. I didn’t want to forget any of the details he had just shared with me.
The article was accepted, edited and published – I could finally add a new title to my resume.
While the above anecdote tells the serendipitous, happy story behind the beginning of my career as a sports-meet-culture writer, it doesn’t show the real – ugly – side of the coin.
The part where I was so excited to get a gig, I would attribute zero value to my time and completely forgo retribution.
As a child of the 90s, a teenager in the Y2K era, and someone who came of age in the 2010s, I am all too familiar with the time when internships weren’t paid and we were all just happy to be there. Getting into the door of the industry – creative, fashion, art, media – felt so surreal and impossible back then, that whatever chance was being handed to us felt like a blessing regardless of the monetary aspect.
It wasn’t about the salary. We were happy to starve ourselves and test our endurance. We’d attend parties for the free drinks (sometimes food), to network, and to show we were worth it.
In reality, we weren’t worth it; our bank accounts bled and so did our bodies (figuratively, sometimes literally) from being stressed past our tipping point.
The concept of exploitation only referred to child labor. It didn’t apply to us – my generation.
There was no hip internet blog telling us we were being overused and underpaid, no YouTube channels showing us the hard truth, and no snappy TikToks inspiring us to push back.
The “struggle” was an unspoken shared experience that silently tied all of us together and we were just laughing through the pain.
Even without remuneration, we gave everything we had because the experience balanced it out. We were hungry for knowledge.
Personally, in hindsight, I now recognize that I was extremely lucky to have parents who sacrificed a lot to allow me to find my place in this world. They paid for my expensive education overseas and supplied me with basic needs throughout college.
Upon graduation, they were there to support me throughout all of my risky career choices.
But if you think the industry is elitist now, you should have been there when there were no social media to give anybody a chance to become “somebody”.
For long, years after making my debut on international press, I latched onto the belief that – because I didn’t have the confidence to own my talent, but I loved writing with all of my heart – I had to be grateful for whatever writing job I would get. Therefore, I kept on downplaying the payment aspect.
After all, in my head, I wasn’t a writer. I had a full-time job to attend to.
I was a brand marketing person and writing was just a low-maintenance side hustle. Why would I care about being paid? I was, once again, just happy somebody recognized my skills as worthy of publishing.
Every time somebody reached out to me about an editorial gig, I would turn into the inexperienced 21-year-old Naomi that did not value her abilities (and time) enough to ask for what was due.
I would not fight back on fees, I wouldn’t fuss about the utterly disrespectful wages offered to freelance writers. I was just happy to be there.
Looking back at my first published piece on Mundial, I don’t want to come off as if I am pointing fingers and critiquing them. Actually, it’s quite the opposite. I cherish that experience. They trusted in me – a nobody with no credentials – and cleared the path ahead of me.
For years, I collaborated with the magazine to create amazing football-meets-fashion content that is still relevant to this day – for which I was paid in full.
They helped lay the bricks for the foundation of who I am today. In a way, it’s thanks to them that I am now an expert on the crossover between fashion and football. They trusted me to experiment on their pages.
However, the symphony has changed now.
After years of letting commissioners undermine my work as a freelance writer with ridiculous fees and payment terms, I decided to begin fighting back.
It all started last Friday night when a magazine I collaborated with (essentially for free) in the past reached out to inquire about my availability to write an 8000 characters (circa 2000 words / 2 pages) article to complement an editorial story done in collaboration with a very prominent, very huge, very international brand. Their financial offer was a meager 100€.
At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Did I read wrong? Was a 0 missing? Was I tired from the long week? Was this a joke? As I read the message on my iPhone, I grabbed my laptop and re-opened the email on a bigger screen. My eyes were not lying. I read correctly.
The person was offering me ONE HUNDRED euros for an article that would probably take me three to four days of work. Research, first draft, review, editing and finalization.
A rainbow of emotions flushed my body. First I laughed, then I raised my eyebrows in disbelief, and at last, anger settled in.
I wasn’t going to let this one go.
For all the times I submissively – happily even – said yes to jobs that were clearly lowballing me, today I was going to choose violence.
The sender was going to hear me out. I was going to stand up for myself and all the young writers who are just now coming onto the scene and are being offered laughable fees from big publications working on advertorials.
I took a big breath, just like the time I was about to face one of the best footballers to ever step foot onto a pitch, and hit the reply button. My email read:
“Dear _____,
Nice to meet you, thank you for getting in touch. I am glad you thought of me. I simply cannot accept to write an 8000 characters article (in collaboration with a brand, so an advertorial) for 100€. It would mean undervaluing my time and experience.
I know the job of a writer/journalist is often underrated, but writing an article worth existing takes time. Lastly, it wouldn’t be fair for my other clients who are used to paying way higher fees for my work.
Happy Friday.
Naomi”
It was 7:30 PM on a Friday evening so I didn’t expect a prompt response. But my correspondent wrote back faster than I could imagine.
Their message said:
“Hi Naomi,
I totally agree with you. I understand the fee is low and I didn’t mean to offend you. I know that your work is worth a lot more and I am with you in hoping soon it can be recognized for its worth. Can I ask you what is your price? I am happy to check with the production to see if we can meet you halfway.
Thank you for your time.”
I blankly stared at the screen, incredulous at the interaction.
Was this person for real?
How are you not ashamed of naming that brand and 100€ in the same sentence? How is this industry ever going to be inclusive if these are the fees magazines are offering for branded content?
I felt like I was on an episode of Punk’d.
The endless hours and mental exertion writers employ to write great articles suddenly imploded and crumbled.
It was impossible to believe this person had the nerve to write the first email and then essentially tell me “she was testing the waters” to see if I’d accept to work on this piece for the equivalent of exposure.
Many would say I could have simply declined the offer and moved on. But no, that wouldn’t be enough.
I chose to fight back because there are plenty of emerging artists that do not have the confidence, reputation and pillow to fall back on to be able to snap back and let these people know they are in the wrong.
My work was published enough times already that if I stopped being offered jobs, I’d feel successful regardless.
The irony of it all is that, if this would have been a simple article instead of an advertorial, I would have probably accepted it.
The magazine is independent – though, it’s a spin-off of a quite thriving business with 3 international offices – and since working on Season Zine, I learned how hard it is to keep an editorial project going.
Sponsors are scarce and most of the income goes into printing.
But even for us, as small and adless as we are, whenever we commission a piece done in collaboration with a PAYING brand, we are able to offer an appropriate wage.
If there is an appropriate time to choose violence, this is exactly it.
It’s when our peers – especially those who preach progressive ideals – are stuck in archaic ways.
Have we not learned from our past? Are we not supposed to use our toiled lived experiences to pave a smoother path for new generations? I ask myself this question often: would companies lowball a doctor? A lawyer? An engineer?
While I know I am not concretely saving lives, why is art not respected the same way? How are we, as artists, expected to create anything of substance if the payment for our work is so preposterously poor?
Ironically, I worked in the brands that supply funds for advertorials before. I know how much money they pour into the pockets of these companies. It’s not crumbs. It’s definitely more than enough to offer a decent – not asking for outstanding – fee.
If you, like me, are in the position to fight back next time somebody tries to undermine the worth of your time, please step up and let them know (politely) that they got you fucked up. Pay it forward to those who cannot afford to cut ties and burn bridges.
And if you, like the sender of that email, are in a position to hire, commission, or offer work, before sending an email that has the potential for a follow-up where you essentially discredit what you initially wrote, think twice.
Fight internally first, stand up for what’s right, and then press send.
Things I think people should be aware of:
1. Laura Gauch — A brilliant visual artist from Bern, Switzerland whom I had the pleasure to mentor in 2021. She’s not only a fantastic photographer and film maker, she also has the amazing (and rare) ability to make her work feel super familiar — she sells prints too. I recently got this one.
On Sunday night I was invited to a dinner to celebrate Calcetto Eleganza. We ended up spending the evening reminiscing about our youth and the fun things that characterized it, including Omnitel’s incredible TV commercials (and the summer card that allowed us to text our friends all day long for free)
brillant as always
strong as always
This was a fantastic read Naomi!