a Bum by any other Name... Please!

I'm sure every writer does until they get that dose of reality that… hmm I think I am the only person who REALLY finds my life interesting haha. Perhaps after I die I'll write it. Remember good writers never die they just become their pseudonyms.
I'm reading this really scary (disturbing) article on freelance writing jobs... ugh. It's a conspiracy... just as I imagined. Just as I learned in my studies on HR practices and other corporate tactics, big brother, the powers that big, corporate big wigs, those that have the means of holding home and homelessness over your head, otherwise from here out referred to as ‘THEY’, only want to hire someone else’s employee.
According to an article that inferred that the fate of freelance writers is to be underwritten by those who ‘work’ within the walls of governed corporate… wow, that says a mouth full, and I said it before I even finished my first cup of coffee…but anyway, yes, I got that, loud and clear from what I read. I caused a huge ‘sigh’ to come forth.
What this means is articles and journals, editorials and other short quips, can now be published for free, meaning ‘they’ don’t have to pay the writer for it. It’s like having your utilities included in your rent. It’s great except your rent is usually higher than normal. Same with writing for your corporation, you aren’t getting anything ‘extra’ for this effort if even a byline on the article. It’s just enough ‘stardom’ for them to purchase dozens of the publication to hand out ‘free’ to family members with the article or passage circled in red marker with a smiley face that says “Hey I wrote this” on it.
Boy, am I learning about that. Contributing Author is such a catch -22 situation. Depending on where you are on the literary food chain, you can be almost sure that the only contribution you’ll be noted for is the part that gets little to no attention.
No let’s talk about this Freelance thing… 15 bucks an article. Well I had to look at it as 15 bucks an hour (I’m a pretty quick thinker and typist). Okay 15 bucks and hour—yeah I have PhD Candidate after my name what of it… its 15 bucks an HOUR!
15 bucks and hour! Okay so I’m an artist… a starving artist. I’m hearing it, seeing it, and accepting it. With that said, I bought a car. This car will serve so many good things in my life. It’s funny how turning 50 in this economy has made my vision change. Where once saw vehicles as wasted money, I know see them as cheap hotel rooms.
I see my car (Merlot—is her name) loaded with my pretty orange appliances (microwave, toaster, blender and the like—yes Kitchen Kaboodle was my friend—when I had money) and I see myself vagabonding all over the west coast. Three months here three months there, I mean surely I have loved ones that can tolerate the sound of my fingers on the keys of my externally connected keyboard for 90 days. Shoot, I can write in my car during the day.
I think I want a steamer trunk, the kind they had on titanic—Titanic (Epic film and rather—gasp—morose reference to my situation) Anywho, I will get this steamer trunk for when I travel by train or plane but otherwise, it will rest in the back of Merlot.
Now, with this plan, I can not only survive on the means to which my current writing situation has afforded me but build on that life by becoming a California travel writer. Who knows perhaps I can even get in that trip to Europe!
All of this simply because I like to write, I think too hard, and I feel too deeply on things that I should just let go.
How bad is corporate really? I mean, I see folks dying like flies, no retirement, no money and hey, isn’t that a CEO parked next to me in his car—sleeping. Yeah, like I just rhetorically asked, how bad is corporate life? Suffice it to say, at least I’ll never be forced into retirement. I’ll always be able to write and shouldn’t have to jump out of a window, or suffer a heart attack because of it.
Sure, I may not have the temporary joy of the big bucks that, at any time ‘THEY’ can retract—with interest. Sure, my title is … well… my title is my name… if anyone cares—which they don’t but It sure gets me through airports faster. And sure, that name may not be on a plague that goes when the building goes (and we have all seen how fast a building can go).
Nonetheless, whether I donated my work (as many of us writers do) or I got paid 15 bucks (which is enough for a nice meal by the way—even at a swank Vegan joint), or whether my work is circled in a red pen with a smiley face next to it, somewhere in the small print I’m there—in perpetuity.
As a writer, I may never been a star but I have become one with the universe and left my mark on the stars. It’s a good feeling, much more comfortable then this cot here in this homeless shelter but….
Just kidding, I’m only practicing for my next life… that of a broke, homeless writer, with only the clothes on my back and worn out Berkinstocks on my feet, and with a shinny laptop in hands at all times (fully paid for)
OH wait… that’s this life....
...and I have to confess... I'm diggin it.
So don't call me a bum, call me a writer.