I may have officially crossed into the realm of pimping myself out. Or at the very least, I have certainly allowed my creative services to be pimped. And I'm not ashamed to admit, I think that I liked it.
I was asked to write an "about me" for someone else. Specifically, it was for a friend...who also happens to be my boss. And the "about me" article was for her online dating profile. And I worked on it while at work, with her giddy, giggling, blessing. So, in a sense, I was being paid to 'get idea's' from other people's online profiles (oh - my - goodness - was that fun) and then try to construct a witty, eye catching profile for her, sure to ensnare Mr. Right (or at least not Mr. Extremely Wrong - which I do worry may be a possibility after seeing some scary profile pictures.)
I also got my first glimpse into the world of online dating, which ultimately became more like a glimpse at how far removed I am from my 'peers.' Not because am married and they're single or because they're looking for relationships online (hello, I am happily married, yet still reach out to stranger's via the blogosphere, because we're human and connecting with other humans is, well, a very human thing to do...) but because these people don't use real words. There are thirty-something's out there using those little text messaging abbreviations that drive me completely insane. LOL. BFF. IDK. (Texting drives me nuts to begin with. Who can press those little buttons anyhow? And why even go through the trouble pressing them when you can just call the person and speak in the time it takes you to send the message?)
In any event, that night I went home and sat down at my own computer and tried to write something, anything, but my brain was acting like sludge. (A side effect of having spent my work hours reading online dating profiles...I think so too.)
In the morning, I finally pulled out something for my friend. Something so sweet and witty and silly that it could only exist in an atmosphere that appreciates the sugarcoated and airbrushed. I worried after I sent it, the same way I worry whenever I'm waiting to hear back from an editor about a story. I worried about wording, pacing, did I make sense? Was it enough? Was it too much?
She loved it. It took her all of a minute to shoot me an email back exclaiming that I rock.
And I thought - really? Is this on a very minuscule scale how it would feel if I 'pimped' my creativity out, if I wrote in the style of some unnamed big author's who have their latest novels everywhere and couch cushions waiting for them on Oprah? Would it be so hard to stop sweating the threads of constructing sound literature (trying to weave the plots and subplots of stories together like threads) - to stop caring so much and just write.
Write fluff. Get paid. And feel...meh? Slightly satisfied to have made someone else happy. Not entirely unhappy myself. A little underused, perhaps. Slightly "I sold out-ish." But, not bad.
Maybe there's room for (some) fluff. Not that I think I could read it myself. But from what this week has taught me, someone else might. And they might even pay me for it.
I was asked to write an "about me" for someone else. Specifically, it was for a friend...who also happens to be my boss. And the "about me" article was for her online dating profile. And I worked on it while at work, with her giddy, giggling, blessing. So, in a sense, I was being paid to 'get idea's' from other people's online profiles (oh - my - goodness - was that fun) and then try to construct a witty, eye catching profile for her, sure to ensnare Mr. Right (or at least not Mr. Extremely Wrong - which I do worry may be a possibility after seeing some scary profile pictures.)
I also got my first glimpse into the world of online dating, which ultimately became more like a glimpse at how far removed I am from my 'peers.' Not because am married and they're single or because they're looking for relationships online (hello, I am happily married, yet still reach out to stranger's via the blogosphere, because we're human and connecting with other humans is, well, a very human thing to do...) but because these people don't use real words. There are thirty-something's out there using those little text messaging abbreviations that drive me completely insane. LOL. BFF. IDK. (Texting drives me nuts to begin with. Who can press those little buttons anyhow? And why even go through the trouble pressing them when you can just call the person and speak in the time it takes you to send the message?)
In any event, that night I went home and sat down at my own computer and tried to write something, anything, but my brain was acting like sludge. (A side effect of having spent my work hours reading online dating profiles...I think so too.)
In the morning, I finally pulled out something for my friend. Something so sweet and witty and silly that it could only exist in an atmosphere that appreciates the sugarcoated and airbrushed. I worried after I sent it, the same way I worry whenever I'm waiting to hear back from an editor about a story. I worried about wording, pacing, did I make sense? Was it enough? Was it too much?
She loved it. It took her all of a minute to shoot me an email back exclaiming that I rock.
And I thought - really? Is this on a very minuscule scale how it would feel if I 'pimped' my creativity out, if I wrote in the style of some unnamed big author's who have their latest novels everywhere and couch cushions waiting for them on Oprah? Would it be so hard to stop sweating the threads of constructing sound literature (trying to weave the plots and subplots of stories together like threads) - to stop caring so much and just write.
Write fluff. Get paid. And feel...meh? Slightly satisfied to have made someone else happy. Not entirely unhappy myself. A little underused, perhaps. Slightly "I sold out-ish." But, not bad.
Maybe there's room for (some) fluff. Not that I think I could read it myself. But from what this week has taught me, someone else might. And they might even pay me for it.
Labels: Myself, pimped, Work, Writing Life
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