Why I'm No Longer Willing to Bleed for Editors
the trouble with sharing trauma in a pitch
Hi writer friend,
Britany, here. Today’s issue is a guest post from freelance writer Olga Alexandru. A big thank you to Olga for sharing the experience that made her reconsider how and when she’s willing to prove herself to editors.
A few quick things first:
Last week I shared this pitch that landed me an assignment in Outside Magazine. Go check that out if it slipped by you on Friday. (It’s for paid subscribers only.)
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Now, on to Olga’s essay…
Why I'm No Longer Willing to Bleed for Editors
The pitch call seemed right up my alley, if a little vague. It was featured in a newsletter that I had recently signed up to for pitching information. The request for pitches came from a new publication that was transparent about their rates so, naturally, I sent a pitch through.
The editor replied and said that they are only looking for pitches from marginalized people and could I tell her a bit more about myself and my situation. I got an uncomfortable feeling about it and decided to sit on it for a few days. This was less than six months into my freelance writing career. I wanted to please the editor so I could get the commission.
Against my gut instinct I sent her an email back, outlining the life experiences I had that I believed made me fit into her particular category.
It felt wrong writing the email, with my instincts telling me to stop. But I didn’t. Was a byline worth spilling my guts, my traumas, my history to a complete stranger? This is a question I would think about often after the fact.
She replied back with a kind email affirming that, yes, the trauma I performed for her was enough to be considered for her publication. She told me to follow up in a few months as she wouldn’t be covering the topic I pitched until then. I never did.
What happened wasn’t exactly her fault. She was trying to run a publication for people of a certain experience, which is understandable. It makes sense that when marginalized identities are at the forefront of what you do, you want to get it right. You don’t want to let other people slip through the net. But there’s something about asking someone to justify their identity that still sits wrong with me. Having to ‘prove’ myself left me feeling exploited and open for re-traumatization, especially when the interaction went nowhere. Opening myself up to a complete stranger about some of the darkest parts of my life was painful. It left me questioning myself. Did I have a right to call myself marginalized? Was it really that bad? Imposter syndrome creeped in about my own mental health; a condition people with mental health problems are more than familiar with.
I’m no stranger to writing about my mental health. Before I became a freelance writer I was baring my soul in zines and other self-published work. I will happily talk about the impact of anxiety, depression and childhood trauma because it’s important for me to be honest in my writing. I’ve written about how I used shopping to cope with my anxiety during the beginning of the pandemic and how illustrated books for adults have been a saving grace when I can’t read due to mental health problems. These editors never asked to see my ‘anxiety credentials’. They never asked me to prove that I was, in fact, struggling with anxiety. I pitched the stories and they believed me. They didn’t make me jump through hoops that are unnecessary at best and traumatizing at worst. I’ve written about the pain of being an immigrant and having my family scattered all over the world, being unable to visit them due to the pandemic. My editor didn’t ask to see my passport or contact my family to make sure that they live where I said they did.
I share my personal stories so that others feel less alone, because writing has always done that for me. It feels empowering to share my stories on my terms. To give voice to topics that are often hush hush. I’ve had people reach out to me to say that my writing has made them cry or that they could relate to what I’d written. Writing is catharsis. I need to do it as much as other people need to hear the stories. But I need to feel safe doing so. There are certain publications I won’t pitch to because I know the personal stories they feature are there for people to mock rather than empathize with. And now I’ve added certain editors to that list.
I refuse to bleed for editors anymore, to lay myself bare at their request. Instead, I look for opportunities where it feels safe to share, where the editors are sensitive and supportive and most importantly where I can be firm in my identity.
In the nine months since that interaction, no one else has ever asked me to prove that I belong to a certain group or am marginalized enough. And if they do, I am unwilling to mine my trauma for a commission. I vowed to never again share such personal details with an editor just to secure a byline. I didn’t know better then because I was new and inexperienced, wanting to impress and score that commission, willing to do anything. I thought that’s what it took to be a good writer. But even so, some part of me knew that this shouldn’t be a necessary part of the work. At least for me, it couldn’t be.
When the story, which was about the debilitating nature of perfectionism, eventually got commissioned by another publication the one note my editor gave me was that she wanted it to focus on the reality of my perfectionism. My reality from my perspective. It was important for me to tell this story to educate people about the realities of dealing with perfectionism and to help other people who were experiencing similarly difficult circumstances. And by going through this experience I ended up educating and helping myself instead.
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