As I write this column, my eyes wander from the computer screen to the envelope on the desktop. It holds my good news/bad news mail of the day. The good news is that the mail carrier finally delivered a check I've been waiting for, just in time to pay the bills. The bad news can be summed up in two words on the invoice: "kill fee."
"What's a kill fee?" my 8-year-old niece Meagan asked this past Christmas. I could appreciate her wide-eyed expression. The sinister-sounding phrase -- which describes the payment a writer receives when the finished article is rejected -- had been ringing in my ears for two days, ever since the editor of my first feature magazine assignment called to tell me the disappointing verdict.
For three years, I've been nursing a growing interest in writing for publications outside of the academy. I set my sights on several respected magazines that might be interested in my sociological work in the areas of gender, health, and family.
When I was feeling inspired, I would pore over writers' guides and magazines, jotting down article ideas. But my writing aspirations always seem to take a back seat to my heavy teaching load as a lecturer.
Last summer, I finally took a shot at magazine freelancing. A guide I read had warned not to bother with the large-circulation magazines without having published clips. (Write a column for the local paper, the book suggested.) Call it arrogance, but I refused to start at the bottom. I had my academic publications, after all.
My friends and family tried to warn me: "You're not going to send those, are you? You'll put the editors right to sleep." I saw their point. Still, I had to show prospective editors some evidence that I write for a living. So I enclosed an academic publication on the topic I was proposing, praying that editors would pay more attention to the clever quotes and bullet points outlined in my query.
It worked. Two weeks later, I received a call from "Mary," the associate editor of a magazine I respected a great deal. Mary said the editorial staff liked the idea and the pitch. I was so thrilled that I didn't worry when she asked in a concerned voice, "You are going to use the tone of voice you used in the query, not the academic publication, right?"
I assured her that the article would offer the reflections of a woman -- not an academic -- who had conducted a study on a rather sexy topic: women and health technology. Her readers would be offered a "behind-the-scenes peek" at what I had seen and heard along the way. She gave me the green light, and a contract.
The idea of being paid a handsome price for every word I penned made me dizzy. Academic writing was always supposed to pay in theory -- a publication credit on one's vita equals productivity equals tenure equals money -- but that theory always seems to mock those of us in lecturer land.
The promise of payment was only part of the pleasure. I was also experiencing something I hadn't felt in a long time: the joy of writing. There were some worries during the process. First, I knew I was setting myself up for a big fall if things didn't go well. Second, my editor disappeared on me. Mary got married and then took off on her honeymoon. Unfortunately, this left me on my own, calls unreturned, fretting over stylistic questions.
My concerns were well-founded. When Mary finally called, it was to tell me the article had been killed. The senior editor found it "too academic" after all. They liked the dialogue, characters, and personal observations I had offered, but there weren't enough of them. Subtle phrases like "I observed" had damned me as the academic that I am.
Deflated and fighting tears, I thanked Mary for her time, assuming our business was over. That's why Mary's next comment set my heart racing. "My main critique is that it wasn't fresh enough; it sounded like what it was, you reporting on a study you did some time ago. Now, if you'd like to rethink our earlier discussion about writing that other story..."
Her sentence dangled in the air, a maddening invitation. Mary and I had struggled over this "other story" issue before. The first article I had proposed to the magazine was based on a study I had conducted of medical professionals, each of whom had requested confidentiality. This had been no problem for academic journal editors. But Mary wanted at least a few names for legitimacy. "Otherwise our readers will think we made up these people," she explained.
I told Mary that I had run into this problem once before. One of the respondents in the study had been murdered years later, and I had wanted to write a magazine article on his life and death. An academic colleague had halted me in my tracks, sternly reminding me of our code of ethics on confidentiality.
When Mary heard about the murder, she seemed to come unglued. She asked me for all the details of the story -- I gave her some -- and then started shouting directives. "Ignore your colleague! This is a great story. Write it as a magazine author, not an academic. Heck, maybe you should write this story for us instead! You've got all the right instincts. Just write it!"
She pushed for 20 minutes, but I held my ground. Months later, hearing that the article I did write had been rejected, I found it incredibly hard to say no to her second invitation to write the more sensational story. But I declined.
So what have I learned from this experience? First, I learned -- or more aptly, was reminded -- that the transition from an academic life to life outside was going to be a challenge. Lest the reader wonder, I am not as naive as I may sound about rejections in a writer's life. This wasn't my first, but it was the hardest to accept, coming as it did when my finances were a mess and my career-transition concerns were heightened. I had visions of embracing my 40th birthday this year with a cocky attitude about my "new writing career." Well, maybe by age 41, I'll be able to swagger.
Second, I learned to get past the rejection and appreciate what Mary did offer me on that last call: a half hour of time and encouragement; names of two editors who might want the article; and an invitation to submit ideas on any current research I'm doing (I stifled a rueful laugh over the idea that I've had time to be conducting research). In the competitive world of freelancing, I understand those offers mean something.
Finally, I learned a little lesson from my niece, who remained fascinated by this rejection experience. "Why didn't the magazine people like your article, Auntie?" she asked me over dinner.
"Well Meagan, they didn't think I had the right kind of story-telling voice," I explained. Deciding it was her job to comfort me, she cooed in a baby-talk voice: "Stupid magazine. Mean editors. Mean to Auntie." That made me laugh for the first time in days. It struck me then -- she had figured out the right words and voice to do the job. If she could do it, with a little practice, so could I.
Christine Martinelli is a pseudonym.
