An absolutely on-the-nail piece about freelance writing

(This is short. I’m still on a borrowed laptop that’s slow as arse….)

I see about ten think-pieces a week about the brutality of freelance writing/the media/jobhunting for twenty-to-early thirtysomethings, mostly all saying the same damn things. Usually these days I feel there isn’t much more left to read on the subject. I think to myself, wearily, do I really need to read another 800 words about moving back in with your parents/grotty rented flats, internship horrors, the high cost of living, exploitative editors, ‘lost’ paycheques, the devaluing of writing/arts and humanities degrees, and so on. But every so often, something can still knock me for six with its resonance. Like this post, Eight Years of Solitude, with its analogy of the freelancer as the hapless mistress; an anology I’ve used myself many times before, less succinctly and well. [There was a concluding sentence here which I’ve cut out due to paranoia; sorry about that…]

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