Being a Freelance Writer

There’s the word that a lot of people seem to not like: Freelance. It means someone thinks highly enough of their skills that they will be willing to do that skill for you. Sometimes, they turn out to not be as great as they make themselves out to be.

I consider myself a freelance writer. I’ve done some work in the past and plan to do more in the future. Am I the most talented writer out there? No. Am I quick to get the job done? Yes.

Freelance writing is more than just getting some extra, supplemental money. It’s making sure you deliver on your promise to your client and write to the best of your ability, even if you know nothing about the content you’ll be writing about. I’ve had to research for a lot of subjects I know little to nothing about. Some of it was dry and some of it was interesting.

There’s one thing that needs to be clear: not all freelance work is easy and not all freelance work is impossible. You know what your skills are. Don’t try to make yourself out to be a fantastic writer in order to get clients. That will likely just make no clients come to you. They want someone genuine, not fake.

If freelance work sounds like something you want to do, make sure your ready. Take some classes, research what goes into it, and look at other freelancers. See what they do that makes them successful. If you want, you can better your skills before you start the work. Your potential clients will thank you for being the best you can be.


Excerpt from My In-Progress Fiction Novel

Hello! I thought I would motivate myself to start writing my novel again by writing a small excerpt from it on here. This is from much later in the book than where I am, but it’s always nice to know where the story is going in the future.


His face was contorted into something grotesque and painful. The gun dropped from his hands as they gripped the sides of his head. I tried to look away, but I was transfixed on his eyes. They were bulging from his skull, looking terrified. They slowly rolled to the back of his head as he fell over. He hit the ground with a thud, blood flowing from his eyes and ears.

My hands were shaking. I tore my gaze from him and looked around. No one else was anywhere in sight. I turned back to him and felt my heart beat faster.

It was me. I had done that to him.

He was trying to kill me, so of course I would defend myself. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s all part of human nature. Plus, he threatened the life of my best friend. I wasn’t going to back down from that.

I had no idea that I was able to do that. I shouldn’t be able to hurt someone in that way, just read their immediate thoughts. It couldn’t have been me. There has to be someone else around here.

Even as I looked around for the tenth time, I knew that no one would be coming out to claim their kill.

I was the killer.


Words are hard, as any writer knows. Sometimes, the one word we know we need just isn’t coming to us. Sometimes, sitting down to write is an impossible thing. Words don’t always jump out at us and flow through our hands onto the page. However, that doesn’t mean that we can’t still write.

The amount of times I’ve sat down to write and ended up writing something different than I was planning is astounding. My brain doesn’t always allow me to write what I’ve been wanting to write.

I have a story that I’ve been working on for four years. After getting around 100 pages in, I scrapped it and started from the beginning. It just wasn’t doing what I wanted it to do, so I had to completely restart it. Surprisingly enough, losing all of those pages didn’t bother me. I already know what I want the story to do, it’s just the process of writing it that’s difficult.

Now, I’m in a flash fiction class. I would love to see if I can take at least some of my story and transform it into a flash fiction, just to see what happens. I could even take the general concept and make it into a flash fiction, if I don’t decide on a specific spot instead. I honestly didn’t think I’d like flash fiction all that much, but I’ve found it to be pretty interesting and helpful. It’s definitely something I will use in the future.


Writing Helps Better Yourself

I’ve been doing a freelance writing job for almost three months now. I mostly write articles and it’s completely ghost writing, which isn’t what I set out to do, but is what happened.

For the most part, the articles haven’t been about things that I want to write about. I personally think writing about plastic surgery rumors is completely unimportant in the grand scheme of things and we shouldn’t care if a famous person got a nose job.

Occasionally, however, I’ll get an assignment that is actually interesting to research. I’ve had some that aren’t exactly the most interesting, but then I was assigned a few eBooks to write. The last one I worked was mostly about connecting with nature. There was a lot more to it than that, however. A lot of it had to do with helping yourself achieve the best you can possibly be.

It was really interesting to write and ended up actually having some things that I would apply to my own life. They might just help me better myself overall and make my life that much better in the long run.

Writing can help anyone better themselves. The same, of course, goes with reading. Both of these things can spark something in you to help you become a better you. Writing has always made an impact on my life, and it’s not going to stop anytime soon, only become much bigger.

Is Too Much Writing Bad?

I’ve noticed that throughout the past few years, I’ve been doing more and more writing. I always did a lot of writing, but it was spread out and not very consistent. Thanks to college, I was doing more consistent writing because of my creative writing classes.

I think two years ago, I took a lot of writing classes to the point where I felt like I couldn’t do much of any writing for a while. Of course, that didn’t stop me, but it still crossed my mind.

Now, I’m not only taking three classes with a lot of writing, but am also doing an online writing job where I’m rewriting sometimes two articles a day on top of doing homework for my super stressful senior year. Not to mention, during most of my free time at school (of which there is little), I’m writing a story down by hand that I’ve had in my head for years.

Am I writing too much?

It’s funny that this came to my head tonight as I’m doing work for my online job and doing some homework. It’s even funnier that I decided to write it down here, just as an easier way to get my thoughts out.

In a way, I think it is too much. I feel like I can’t do anything besides write, which isn’t really what my main goal is in life. Whenever I think I have time to myself, I remember that I have ten pounds of stuff to write.

In another way, it’s far from being too much. The fact that I’m still doing it should tell you something.

I love writing. I’ve always loved writing, ever since I was super little and had an extremely active imagination. I love creating stories, which is part of the reason I’m also an actress. Stories are really what keeps me sane.

Maybe it’s not all that far-fetched to say that maybe writing so much is actually keeping me sane, in a very strange way. I just love coming up with ideas and figuring out something to do with them (that’s why I like creative writing so much).

I answered my own question a lot faster than I thought I would.

Even with the question answered, I still need to keep in mind that I can’t let writing take over my entire life. I need to do well in school in order to graduate with really good grades. I also need to keep my focus on my acting if I want to do anything with that in the future.

Writing will always be there, but the acting is something I really have to work for.



One Day Down

I started my daily writing yesterday! It was a lot easier than I thought it would be, but it’s also only the first day. I think it’ll definitely help me write more in the future and actually get a novel completed. Then again, I probably shouldn’t think so far ahead, it’ll only make me mess up.

On a side note, I did GISHWHES for the fourth time last week. For anyone who might not know, it’s the Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen! Basically for a week, you are given a list of around 200 items or so to complete with your team. Each team has 15 members. Some of them are goofy, like get a photo of a stormtrooper cleaning a pool and some of them are actually really helpful to people. There was one this year to help raise money for two Syrian refugee famlies, which we raised enough money to help four or five families. It’s a lot of fun, even though it can get rather draining on you.

Misha Collins, who’s an actor and the creator Random Acts charity, is the one who created GISHWHES. He’s pretty awesome. So, if anyone wants to go crazy for a week, sign up next year. It does cost a little money to get in, but there’s also the chance of getting a Gisholarship, which is when someone else who signs up pays for someone else to get in.

Anyway, enough on that topic. It just ended yesterday, so it’s still fresh in my mind. Back to writing!


One Week

In the grand scheme of things, one week doesn’t seem like much time at all. It’s only one of fifty-two in a year. A lot can happen in a week, though. People can get married, divorced, have a kid, or even die.

I’ve had my cat for five years, ever since she was only a few months old. She’s orange and white with a long tail. Her tail has darker orange rings going down it and she has some barely noticeable darker stripes on her torso. The white on her goes from her chin and on her underbelly, then jumping to her paws. She has an orange spot on one of her paws.

She’s been a mostly outdoor cat for most of her life. My mom thought it was best, since she doesn’t like fleas (don’t even get me started on this). When we got her from the shelter, her name was Dora. They had found her and her brothers and sisters wandering down a road with their mother. She was the last one left of her siblings. As much as I wanted her to stay an indoor cat, my mom insisted that she should be allowed outside.

From day one, I always worried that she would get lost or get hurt. She got bitten on the leg once, but it healed up. She is a very intelligent cat and knew when to run and when to fight.

After my parents divorce, my dad got married to my best friend’s mom. ┬áIt’s not as great as people make it out to be (she’s not my best friend anymore, but that’s another story). She got a black cat who decided she was the dominant cat, even though she was both younger than mine and had only just gotten there. She was aggressive towards my cat, but a sweetheart to people. Though my step-sister is unaware of this, my dad and her mom actually gave her away because of how that cat was acting towards mine.

Then, my step-sister got a kitten that was taken from it’s mother way too early. She was maybe two or three weeks old. She was really sweet when she was that young, but she was also dependent on us for survival. My cat didn’t really care much about her. My other step-sister, who is a lot younger, isn’t very intelligent when it comes to pets. She tends to be aggressive when she shouldn’t be. Therefore, that kitten ended up growing up to be vicious towards both people and animals.

And then, less than a year ago, they suddenly got a dog. I was away at school and no one said anything to me. I saw it on Facebook. My cat had only ever been around my sister’s dog and she was terrified of her.

I already knew that the only person who gave two shits about my cat other than me was my dad. Even then, he didn’t feed her enough or clean out her litter box enough. I came home for less than an hour a few weeks ago to bring stuff home from college and she was skin and bones. Part of that is because she eats for a few seconds and runs back outside. But it’s mostly because she doesn’t get fed enough when I’m not home.

In between visiting people, I stopped by my house to pick up some things for my summer class. I noticed my cat had an abscess on her back behind her shoulder blade. I showed my dad and figured out what he needed to do to make sure it healed. I wanted to stay and take care of her myself, but the person I was visiting for a week was waiting outside and they lived two hours away. After we left, after driving for almost half an hour, he suggested we turn around and I bring her with me. I said no. I really wish I had said yes.

My mom just moved into a new house with her husband of a year. My plan was that I would talk to them about taking my cat so she could be fed properly when I couldn’t be home. I still have another year of school and the apartment I’m staying in doesn’t allow pets. I was going to talk to her once I finally got home two weeks after school ended. I have been going to different places, like my brother’s, my sister’s, and my boyfriends house.

Then I get the text. Five days ago. My dad told me he hadn’t seen my cat in almost two days. I was with people having a pretty good time until that came. News like that always seems to happen when you’re having a good time. I wanted to drive back that night, but I didn’t have a car and I knew my boyfriend wouldn’t want to drive almost three hours that late at night. I kept asking for updates and hoping she would turn up. She had done something similar once before, but it was only for a little over a day.

Three days ago, I finally got to go home, but only for a few hours. I was house/pet sitting at my sister’s for the weekend. I got home and immediately went into the woods to call for her. It was a surreal experience. I don’t really know how else to describe it. I had done this so many times before and she would always come running to me eventually. This time, she didn’t. I went inside and found something that sounded like a canned food can to hit a fork against. She still didn’t come.

Maybe it was naive to think that she would magically show up just because it was me. She has never really been a cuddly cat, but I was always the one person who she would let hold her. It may be for only a minute, but she would always let me do it. I thought the sound of my voice might call to her or something. It didn’t happen.

Since then, I’ve posted on Facebook, hoping someone might see something. The local animal shelter also posted a missing cat post on Facebook. It’s gotten a lot of shares, but nothing has come of it yet. They did post it after they closed for the weekend on Saturday, but maybe they just haven’t listened to their voicemail on the shelter’s phone since then and someone called it in. Someone could easily have found her injured and be taking care of her.

Not knowing is worse. People always say that on TV, but you don’t really know how it feels until it’s you. When I went home to search for her, part of me was hoping that if I didn’t find her alive and happy, I’d at least find her body somewhere. It hurt so much when I started to think of that, but I just hate not knowing what happened. It hurts ten times worse. I don’t think I’ve gone a day since then without thinking of her and just sobbing. I can’t let her go, not when I don’t know.

And, of course, I looked to the internet for similar stories. Cats had come back months after they disappeared. Reading things like that only makes me hold onto hope that she’ll come back. I was going to call the local vet office, but they ended up being closed when I thought of it. I’ll have to call next week and see if she was brought in by anyone.

I already know that I won’t be able to live at home if she isn’t there. Everyone at my house except my dad is toxic to be around. Even he’s slightly toxic, but in the chain smoker kind of way. If she doesn’t come back, I’ll have to leave. Maybe I’ll come home for little bits of time this summer, but I can’t stay. I can’t feel completely alone in that house.

I feel bad for my dad. I know he feels guilty about what happened. He was taking care of her abscess, but it sounded like he didn’t put anything peroxide or anything to keep it clean. At the same time, he’s already given up on her coming back. He thinks some animal smelled her wound and attacked her. The logical part of my brain is saying that it is totally possible. The rest of my brain says fuck the logical side and says she’s fine, probably being taken care of by some little old lady and is trying to get out of her house every second to come home, but she won’t let her until her wound is healed. Which is what my dad should have done.

I also feel guilty. I didn’t go back and take her with me. Part of why I didn’t is because the place I was going has four cats and a dog, all of which my cat doesn’t like. Plus, she would have to be confined to one room the entire time I was there. I should’ve brought her anyway. Guilt is stupid. I wanted her to have freedom instead of being confined and she went missing. I feel guilty about it.

I could go on all day about this, so I’ll just say one more thing. Izzie, please come home. Find your way back home and I’ll be there waiting for you. Please, just come home.