Sorry Not Sorry
A recent shot from my Instagram feed.
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Alice and Mr. Fantastico
Big Sky Country, Austin, TX | Photo credit: Susannah Breslin
Yesterday, I read about The Most Dangerous Writing App on Kottke, and I decided to give it a try. Basically, you have to start writing and not stop for a set period of time, or your prose will disappear. I used the default setting of five minutes and created a work of flash fiction. Bear in mind, you can’t really edit, so I didn’t make any changes after I’d finished. Also, if you try it, don’t forget to download your work at the end. My story is called “Alice and Mr. Fantastico.”
this is the first time i've seen this place from this distance, fantastico said, his hands stuffed into his pockets. alice said nothing, just stood there, facing the sun, feeling blue. they had been married for 17 years, 12 months, 6 days, 5 hours, and 13 minutes at that moment. he had set the marriage clock the second they'd exchanged rings, and every anniversary, they'd look at it together, admiring the steady swing of the arms around the face. for a moment, fantastico hesitated, then he stepped forward. hoping she wouldn't mind, he wrapped his arms around alice from the back, as if he was her personal straightjacket and squeezed. instead of leaning back into him, as he'd hoped, his wife turned rigid, bracing at his embrace. from the front of her head, she made a small noise, something muffled and gutteral that suggested unhappiness and a desire to file for divorce. beyond them, there was the great land: the rolling hills, the dramatic ravines, the orange-scorched sky. between them, there was no physical space, only the grim concrete of alice's waning interest in fantastico. alice sensed fantastico sensing her interest in disincohabitating. for a moment, she felt guilty. then she imagined the guilt was small bits of dust on the floor, and her newfound attitude was the broom sweeping them across the porch. it was very hard to know what to do sometimes, alice considered. now, of course, wasn't one of those times. this was a time to rejoice. soon, she would never see fantastico again. her life would be hers, and the land would be something into which she could run, never to return.
Buy my digital short, “The Tumor.” It’s been called “a masterpiece of short fiction.”
Seven Years Cancer-Free
Buy my digital short, “The Tumor.” It’s been called “a masterpiece of short fiction.”
Ask Susannah: How Do You Get into Freelance Work?
Q: Love your writing. Curious, but how do you get into freelance work?
Image via Wikipedia
A: There’s no one tried and true way to get into freelancing. More often than not, it’ll happen when you undertake a series of experiments. Think of it as firing a shotgun and seeing what it hits or throwing shit against a wall and seeing what sticks. You never know what’s going to happen. It’s up to you to get moving.
I believe the first published article I wrote was for a local newspaper, and it was a book review. Come up with one idea that you can sell. A review. A photograph. A comic. Identify the publication most likely to publish it. A local rag. A small website. A literary magazine. Figure out the person to pitch it to—the editor-in-chief, the photo editor, the features editor. Find their email address. If you can’t find it easily, and you’re pitching to a publication where people have their own emails, emails usually follow one of these styles: firstnamelastname@company.com, firstnameperiodlastname@company.com, firstnameunderscorelastname@company.com, firstinitiallastname@company.com. You can see if you’ve got the right one by googling it. Usually, their email is posted somewhere, and that search will confirm you have it right. Then write a pitch. Say: I’d like to write a story about X. Or: I’m interested in covering the upcoming cow auction. Perhaps: Are you looking for an op-ed columnist? Tell them what you’ve done that’s impressive. Include some links to your work or even a sample of your work.
A lot of times, editors never respond. That’s just the way it is. I hate when I pitch editors, and they don’t respond. That said, sometimes as an editor, I don’t respond to pitches. It’s the single most passive aggressive no you’ll ever get. Learn to live with rejection. Or ignore it. It’s just one person.
Of course, you can forget that whole pitching-to-publications thing and sell your stuff yourself. I like Gumroad. You can set your own price, produce your own products, and get paid in a reasonable time period.
At first, you might not make a lot of money with your freelancing. If you keep at it, you’ll get better. You’ll connect with other freelancers. People will start asking you to create things for them. Eventually, it just grows and grows.
Good luck!
SB
Buy my digital short, “The Tumor.” It’s been called “a masterpiece of short fiction.”
How to Get a Mammogram
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You go to the place. You’ve done this before. You’re not a novice. In fact, you’re a pro. Because you’ve done this many, many times before. So, you get there early. Even so, other people get there before you. So, you have to wait. But not for long. Soon enough, someone tells you it’s time to go in the first room. There, a woman behind a computer does your paperwork. She hands you some papers and tells you where to go. You go down a hallway until you get to a locker room. There, a woman gives you a robe and a bag. You go in a smaller room and change. Then, you come back out. For a while, you wait in another room. Eventually, another woman comes out and tells you it’s time. When you walk in the final room, it’s just you and her. When you see the machine, you remember how big it is. Its plastic panels are waiting to squish your flesh between them so it can see what’s inside of you. For a moment, your mind skips. Is it this time, or the last time, or the time a long time ago when they looked inside and found something wrong with you? Just as quickly, you’re pulled back to reality. For maybe ten minutes, you and the machine are locked in an intimate embrace. One by one, it squeezes each breast as you drape your arms awkwardly around its hard frame. Finally, you’re done, and the only evidence it happened is the pink marks on your chest were it squeezed you so hard that you winced and the woman apologized. As you wait for the woman to hand you a piece of paper, you catch a glimpse of the inside of yourself on the screen. There you are: luminous, the flesh in the shape of your breast, inside of it a map of lines you cannot read. What can you do? You take the piece of paper, you walk out to the car, you wonder when they’ll call you and what they’ll tell you.
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Ms. Shiv
The most interesting woman character on TV right now is Siobhan Roy on “Succession.” Aptly nicknamed Shiv, she is an uber-predator among a family of predators, quick to slice any challenger who presents himself before her. She has a 3AM face — hooded eyes and puffy cheeks — that reveals little in the way of emotion. Her core desire is to climb the ladder, regardless of whose face she has to step on to do it. Her husband, Tom Wambsgans, is pathetically Midwestern and knows it, his best hope riding his wife’s coattails to some upper-echelon that will transform him into something other than her pee-on. What will Shiv do next? Let’s hope she doesn’t have a crisis of conscience. It’s good to see a woman be so quick with her shiv.
Buy my digital short story, “The Tumor” … “a masterpiece of short fiction.”
Single
Single Mannequin, Hollywood, CA | Photo credit: Susannah Breslin
I took this photo years ago, while walking on Hollywood Boulevard. She was in repose, her arm aloft and hand holding a sign that read SINGLE. I stuck my hand through the metal grate and took some photos. Her other arm was lying next to her. I can no longer remember if she had a head. The store was abandoned. Had someone created the tableaux as a joke? Or had she done it herself, hoping someone would see her? Maybe one day some male mannequin would stumble upon the scene and extract her from the window.
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Cold Brew
At a certain point, Instagram Stories became far more interesting than Instagram posts. Posts are stiff and sterile. Stories are dynamic and disappearing. (via my Instagram Stories)
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Jack of All Trades
The other day, I spent some time updating my About page. It was short — a simple, straightforward paragraph. Eventually, it occurred to me that approach was wrong. And likely gendered. Women are less likely to toot their own horn than men. So I wrote a much longer version. It includes a lot of stuff I’ve done — from journalism to copywriting to editing to fiction to television. I suppose one could assert that I’m a jack of all trades, master of none. But I’d say I’m a master of writing, and how I apply that gift doesn’t mean jack.
Buy my digital short story, “The Tumor” … “a masterpiece of short fiction.”
Who's Dated Me?
35 Likes, 2 Comments - Susannah Breslin (@susannahbreslin) on Instagram: "This is new resume 👑"
The internet knows me better than I know myself. Image via my Instagram feed.
Buy my digital short story, “The Tumor” … “a masterpiece of short fiction.”
How to Make a Living as a Writer
Over the last year, as the Lawrence Grauman Jr. Post-graduate Fellow at the Investigative Reporting Program at the Graduate School of Journalism at the University of California, Berkeley, I had the opportunity to mentor graduate students in journalism. What question did they ask me most often?
How do you make a living?
For me, the answer was simple. I wasn’t precious about writing. I do one thing well, and nothing else well: I am a very, very good writer. One could say writing is my superpower. Writing is the tool I use to make money. How I use that tool is up to me. There is no one correct way to use the tool. There is you, and the tool, and how you use the tool is your business.
At this point, I’ve been a writer for over two decades. Which is a pretty long time to make a living at something. Along the way, I’ve been many things, but all of them involve writing. I’ve been an investigative journalist, a copywriter, a TV producer, a branding consultant, a publicist, and a speaker, to name a few.
While I know that I can write and well, I have a sort of shrugging attitude as to how I’ve applied that talent.
In 2010, a communications company hired me to be the voice of Pepto-Bismol on Facebook. If you’re not aware, Pepto on social media is a personality. P&G was unhappy with what this company had done to give Pepto a persona. It was up to me to provide that. So, I did. One of the most popular posts I wrote featured the caption: “I partied so hard my cup fell off.” The photo featured Pepto with its cup next to it.
In 2009, I wrote and published a 10,000-word investigation of the Great Recession’s impact on the adult movie industry: “They Shoot Porn Stars, Don’t They?” Slate included it in their "Seven Great Stories About Paying for Sex and Being Paid to Have It,” and Longform called it “unflinching and devastating.” Subsequently, an essay I wrote about the project, "The Numbers On Self-Publishing Long-Form Journalism," was taught in “Media, Politics & Power in the Digital Age” at the John F. Kennedy School of Government at Harvard University and the Studio 20 program at the Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute at New York University.
In 2008, I was an editor for a Time Warner-owned digital vertical for 18-to-34-year-old women. During that tenure, I wrote nearly 1,400 posts, oversaw a team of freelance contributors, and directed the site’s digital outreach program, helping grow the site’s traffic from startup to 4 million unique visitors and 22 million page views a month.
So, who am I? A copywriter? An investigative journalist? An editor? Pretending to be Pepto made $100 an hour and earned me thousands of dollars every month. The porn investigation I published “made” no money but was read by thousands and thousands of people and, according to one reader, “changed the way I think about the business of making pornography.” As an editor, I made over $80,000 a year and learned slideshows are the easiest way to maximize page views. I’ve also developed TV shows, consulted on films, and worked as a branding consultant and a publicist. Was one job better than the other? Was one a waste of my time? Was one meaningful and the rest not? Does it matter? To me, it’s all the same. I’m a writer.
Awhile back, I published a digital short story: “The Tumor.” I had it professionally designed and edited. Every month, people buy copies of it on Gumroad, where consumers can pay they want ($1+) for it. It might be a bizarre fiction inspired by reality and populated by a monster, but it’s also unequivocally mine.
To young journalists, I want to say: Do whatever you want—as long as its yours.
Buy my digital short story, “The Tumor” … “a masterpiece of short fiction.”
The Porn Star Next Door
Jenna Jameson in Wax, Las Vegas, NV | Photo credit: Susannah Breslin
This is an excerpt from a project that I can’t talk about yet. When I wrote this last year, it was inspired by one porn star, but it’s also about porn viewers. Hopefully, I’ll be able to share more about this project in the not-so-distant future.
What about you? You’re not in the room with her. You’re down the hall, or watching the live-feed video monitor, or sitting at home in the dark with an edited version that you downloaded onto your desktop computer, or your tablet, or your mobile phone. You’re a voyeur, or a person who is curious, or looking to get off. You don’t really know why you’re watching, or you don’t really care, or maybe you understand that the girl is a person but you’re not sure you want to know too much about her or why you’re watching her, because if you know too much about her or why you’re drawn to her, that might be what someone who works in the adult movie business would call a “boner killer.” On some level, you know she’s a real person. Heck, maybe you even googled her. You think you know her because you know her name, but you only know her stage name, the name by which she has allowed you to understand some part of herself. She has named herself for a piece of fruit (like peaches), or a time of the year (like autumn), or the way she intuits she makes you feel (like you’re in a haze). The truth of the matter is that you don’t know her real name, or the real her, and frankly you don’t really want to know. At this point, you’ve seen her enough times that you could recognize her without seeing her face: by the curve of her breasts (natural or fake), the tattoo on her hip (sometimes she covers it up with makeup to make her more appealing to more people by making herself less specific), the telltale signs of her (genuine—you think? you hope?) arousal (the flush that spreads across her chest, the sounds she makes as she climaxes). You like her because: she seems happy, or she looks like your ex whom you miss, or she is the girl you always wanted and believe that you will never have. To you, in this time that you share together, she is everything and nothing—the one to whom you turn when you are lonely/bored/wanting something: It’s just you two. Then, it’s over. When you’re done with her, you turn off the device, you walk away, you don’t tell your wife/your girlfriend/your lover what you did (or maybe you do). But, either way, you know the next time you go back to her, she will be there: glowing, radiant, available on the screen. She’s your secret—the secret inside of you.
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A Mini-Movie Starring Me
The conference that’s considering having me do a 60-minute presentation on how to sell yourself asked me if I had any relevant video, which I didn’t, so I made a 5-minute video of myself talking about how to sell yourself. It was pretty easy to do. I used Photo Booth on my Mac. I put on a sensible top to look reasonable and glasses to look smart. I talked about being a Swiss army knife, the best advice I ever got from a TV producer, and why business jargon sucks. It probably took eight tries, and I learned that I say “um” and “like” a lot. Then, I sent it, and I was done.
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The Real Secret to Selling Yourself
Recently, I was approached about doing a 60-minute presentation at a large tech conference. The person who’d contacted me had read this Forbes post: “How to Sell Yourself.” That post has over half a million views, and I still get emails about it. This is called evergreen content, or longtail content, or stuff that is sticky. The steps I outline are pretty simple: Create a superhuman version of yourself to sell stuff for you, be so persistent no one can ignore you, and offer the thing that no one else is offering. There’s nothing particularly novel about these ideas. But they’ve guided me along the path of my 20+-year career at every twist and turn. I’d venture that while all three ideas are important, the key is the second one. Be relentless. At some point, the dam will break.
Buy my digital short story, “The Tumor” … “a masterpiece of short fiction.”
WTF, Women?
As seen on a Barnes & Noble bookstore shelf today: a copy of Melissa Orr’s Lean Out: The Truth About Women, Power, and the Workplace, and a copy of Sheryl Sandberg’s Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead. Needless to say, I didn’t buy either. Instead, I bought a copy of Ray Dalio’s Principles: Life and Work.
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The Only Trump I Fuck With
Adult star Teanna Trump created a fashion line that couldn’t be more fitting for our times. The url? Teanna2020. The slogan? “THE ONLY TRUMP I FUCK WITH IS TEANNA.” It’s a viral sensation.
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A Public Service Message
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A public service message from my Instagram feed.
Buy my digital short story, “The Tumor” … “a masterpiece of short fiction.”
Death of a Woodsman
Earlier this week, AVN reported that performer / director Brandon Iron, “who had mysteriously fallen out of contact with friends since roughly mid-April, in fact died around that time in Dublin, where he had been living for several years with his girlfriend Sarah O'Brien and their daughter Lily.” A sad story. I interviewed Iron several times, and he seemed like a nice, sensitive guy. I quoted him in the most-read story I’ve ever written for Forbes: “The Hardest Thing About Being a Male Porn Star.”
According to Iron:
"‘The hardest thing about being a male porn star is convincing your female co-workers that you are an interesting, well-rounded, fun guy who they might consider dating in a parallel universe after a few drinks,’ Iron says.”
Buy my digital short story, “The Tumor” … “a masterpiece of short fiction.”
Post-Shower Selfie
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A post-shower selfie, in Burbank, California, from my Instagram feed.
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Stripperwear Goes Logomania
via Pleasure Zone
Thanks to the always amazing Ecce Homo, I saw this designer dance wear sold by Pleasure Zone in Houston, Texas. There’s also Givenchy, Chanel, Gucci, Off-White, and Supreme. Because nothing says I’m worth it like logomania.
Buy a copy of my digital short story: “The Tumor” — "a masterpiece of short fiction.”